


Desperate Measures

by devirnis



Series: (You Could Be My) Ever After [2]
Category: Gears of War (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I love Traviss's novels so excuse me while I hijack all of her characters, basically just an excuse to put the characters I love in terrible situations, cameos for everyone!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:24:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devirnis/pseuds/devirnis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One month after the end of the Lambent Pandemic, an old enemy resurfaces. The Stranded turn aggressive outside Anvil Gate and Hoffman calls in reinforcements. However, the unruly locals might not be Baird's biggest problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Building Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7835482/1/Desperate-Measures) in February 2012.
> 
> Again, the title comes from a Marianas Trench [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jTiIAW7qmGU). Do yourself a favour and listen to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I still really hate this prologue. Oh well.

* * *

 

**Prologue: Building Thunder**

****

Hoffman left the comms room considerably more irritated than when he had entered two hours earlier. Talking to Major Reid usually had that effect on people, and that was when he wasn’t being a stubborn asshole about resources. These weekly sitreps were surely doing terrible things to Hoffman’s blood pressure.

He stepped out of the building and paused to survey the surroundings. It had been just over a month since the Locust attack on Anvil Gate, and the scars still showed. Hammer strikes and a Lambent Berserker hadn’t exactly left the place in pristine condition, and the repairs were slow going. Lennard Parry’s engineering corps were stretched between the three main COG settlements: Anvil Gate, Azura and Port Farrall.

Port Farrall immediately made Hoffman think of Reid again, and he had to take a few calming breaths. Hoffman could understand Reid’s demand for Parry’s sappers—the Lambent stalks had done a considerable amount of damage to the old settlement, which now harboured the survivors from _Sovereign_. But to ask for _ninety percent_ —

Hoffman’s gut twisted into a knot of cold misery as he finally caught up to the mention of _CNV_ _Sovereign_. His fists clenched. _Goddamn, Quentin. Dom. Why couldn’t you have survived? You were so close_. That was what got to Hoffman the most. He missed Michaelson and Dom more than he thought possible, but the brutal injustice of it all was the final kick in the teeth. They died _days_ before the war had ended. And the fact that someone as old as Hoffman survived when people like Dom had to die… it just didn’t seem fair.

Heavy footsteps approaching Hoffman from behind snapped him out of his depressing introspection. He put on his best Stoic Colonel face, and turned towards the approaching Gear—because only standard issue Gear boots could make such a racket.

“Colonel.” Padrick Salton paused to salute quickly.

Hoffman nodded at him. “Private.”

“Are you busy, sir?”

“I was on my way to brief Gavriel about the sitrep. But it can wait.”

“Good.” Pad looked mildly disgruntled. “The patrol that was supervising the petrol shipment from the refinery ran into a roadblock this morning. No shots fired, though, sir.”

Hoffman sighed. This was the sixth incident of its kind within the last month. The local Stranded had never been friendly with the garrison, but they mostly kept to themselves. Something had incited them, and that spelled bad news for Anvil Gate.

“I don’t like this, Salton. Something’s brewing.”

“My thoughts exactly, sir. What precautions should we be taking?”

“Double the manpower on patrols. We don’t want any of our Gears finding themselves severely outnumbered in an ambush. And go tell Sergeant Mataki the news. She should be pleased.”

“I know Mataki likes hunting lowlifes, but isn’t _pleasure_ a strong word, sir?”

Hoffman turned on his heel, heading back towards the comms room. He answered over his shoulder, “Tell her we’re expecting guests. I need to make a quick call to Sharle at Azura.”


	2. Cat and Mouse

Baird was fully aware of the irony of his current situation—down in the depths of Pinnacle Tower, hiding from all the idiots clamouring for him to fix something, while working on Sam’s rat bike. But he didn’t really give a damn about irony, and he was frigging sick of everyone breathing down his neck or asking stupid questions every time he worked on something. Some days a genius just needed peace and quiet. And Sam was smart enough not to piss him off—at least while he helped her.

He had to mentally slap himself for staring again.

Things had changed a hell of a lot in the last month, and Baird didn’t just mean finding tranquil silence in Sam Byrne’s company, of all people. It had only been about a month since Adam Fenix’s imulsion countermeasure weapon had been deployed, and this new life entailed a lot of adjusting. On the top of the list of shit that everyone had to adapt to was a new fuel source. Professor Fenix’s countermeasure had wiped all trace of imulsion from the face of Sera, and idiots had celebrated until they realized that meant everything that ran on imulsion was completely useless.

But that problem had an easy fix. The civvies and Gears from _Sovereign_ who ended up on the mainland had started up the decrepit crude oil refineries, and good old-fashioned gasoline was back in demand. Petroleum hadn’t been enough to satisfy Sera’s energy needs, but losing ninety-nine percent of the population had a way of solving that problem. Baird would be long dead before there were enough people to warrant another energy crisis. He didn’t know if that thought was supposed to depress or comfort him, so he moved on.

One thing that wasn’t going anywhere was infrastructure. They had bombed themselves back into the last century, so that wasn’t exactly surprising. Parry and his sappers, the poor bastards, were pretty much in charge of rebuilding everything as well as training other unlucky saps to do so too. Everybody who knew _anything_ was “encouraged” to take on a protégé or pass the knowledge down somehow. Doc Hayman, who had made her way over to Anvil Gate—probably more to get away from Reid than to be near Hoffman—had even taken on a dozen interns, and she was probably verbally castrating them at least ten times a day. Baird had settled on writing everything down in a journal, in case he got run over by a Centaur or something. The last thing he needed was some weedy little jackass shadowing him wherever he went.

Baird stopped working on Sam’s bike to stretch his shoulders. He was practically rebuilding this piece of shit from the ground up, but the complaining was mostly for show. It gave him an excuse to spend time in the underground garage, which had basically become his office. When they’d found this place, he’d nearly pissed his pants in delight. Not that he’d ever admit that.

He spent a lot of time down here lately—whenever he needed to get away from Sharle pestering him to fix something, or when he just felt like being the antisocial dick everyone expected him to be. His social circle had shrunk considerably after Yanik and the Gorasni had left for Branascu a couple weeks ago. It was only logical that the adorable little alliance wouldn’t last for long after a new fuel source was found. Still, the old arrangement stood: if either side ever found themselves in the shit again, as no doubt the case would be at some point, the other would be willing to help.

“Pass me some steel wool.”

Baird looked up to see Sam holding out her hand towards him. She was sitting on the other side of her bike, trying to get rid of some rust damage. He was tempted to tell her to get it herself but he kept his mouth shut and leaned backwards to grab a handful off the workbench behind him. Instead of placing the wool in her outstretched hand, he lobbed it at her head, and quickly went back to working on the bike. However, he could practically feel her glaring at him.

“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath.

Baird smirked to himself. Yeah, some things really didn’t change.

 

* * *

 

Sam knew that Baird was staring. It didn’t bother her anymore. _Everyone_ stared, and that wasn’t a vanity thing. It was just an occupational hazard when you were born with breasts. Sam had figured that out pretty quickly when she joined up. She’d also figured out it was only the ones that leered that she needed to worry about. Luckily, most of the men in the army only needed to look. The ones that wanted to touch were few and far between.

Or maybe they just knew to stay away from her after she broke that one corporal’s nose.

Sam stopped rubbing the steel wool against the rust patch. Michaelson and Dom had both stared too, and she’d never minded. _Dom… damn it._

One month. It had only been one month, so it was understandable that thinking of him still hurt like hell. Sam just still couldn’t figure out _how_ she missed him. As a friend—or something more? There was no denying the feelings she had for Dom Santiago. She’d known the man was broken, but that hadn’t mattered. Despite her better judgement, Sam had been holding out hope that, eventually, he would heal. That he’d come around and realize that… Well. That there wasn’t just Maria.

And there was something she couldn’t ignore: Dom’s unfailing, unshakeable, inextinguishable love for Maria. Sam had been willing to overlook it on Vectes, but retrospectively it was undeniable. Dom had been broken beyond repair. Even if he had survived, there would only ever be Maria.

There was a reason the saying wasn’t “love is completely discerning and rational”. But Sam was slowly starting to come to terms with it. She’d been attracted to a shadow of a man, to the idea of Dom. She wanted someone who didn’t look at her like a piece of meat.

Baird cracked his neck and grunted, breaking her train of thought. Sam was suddenly reminded of her summons to the comms room that morning. She grinned to herself. It was time to do a little testing.

“So, Baird.” Sam started, keeping her tone casual. “You ever thought of doing something besides fixing other people’s shit for the rest of your life?”

He lifted his head slowly, and stared at her with one eyebrow cocked. “You see what I’m doing right now, right? Don’t make me start charging you for lip.”

She scoffed. “Please, I should be charging _you_. This is like your version of meditation. I’m providing you with a service.” He rolled his eyes and went back to whatever he was doing. Time to go in. “I only bring it up because you might have to find another hobby.”

“Yeah, why’s that?”

Sam put on her poker face. “I talked to Hoffman this morning. He wants me to go back to the garrison at Anvegad.”

Baird paused his work for a fraction of a second. Sam watched for any sort of reaction, but he had clearly been spending too much time with Marcus; the sergeant's patent non-expression had apparently rubbed off.

“Well that’s frigging perfect for you, then.” His tone was slightly more acidic than usual. “You’re always yapping about how much you want to go back home.”

This was just too easy. “Yeah, it’s been a long time.” She was shooting for wistful. “I’d better pack soon. Hoffman wants me there by tomorrow night.”

Again, the tinkering sounds stopped for a moment, but he made no comment.

Sam checked her wristwatch. “Shit, we’ve been here nearly three hours.” She got to her feet. “Come on, there might still be food in the mess.”

“You go.” Baird didn’t look up; he continued staring contemptuously at the new side fairing he was installing. “I want to finish this.”

Sam shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

She walked towards the elevator without a moment’s hesitation, or any attempt to change the tetchy mechanic’s mind. As she pressed the call button, Baird mumbled under his breath, “Just frigging _perfect_.” She couldn’t tell if she was meant to hear that or not.

Only after the elevator doors closed did Sam allow herself to grin.

 

* * *

****

Baird didn’t know how much time had passed between Sam’s departure and the bell of the elevator as someone arrived in his garage. He was doing his best not to care, instead focusing on the work right in front of him. But soon he wouldn’t even have this to fall back on. If Sam was heading for Kashkur, her bike would probably be going with her. Baird was determined to believe that it was the loss of the bike—and _nothing else_ —that had put him in this piss-poor mood.

“Baby, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” A hand grabbed Baird’s shoulder and gripped it like a vice.

Baird put his tools away and stood up. He turned to face Cole, who was wearing his trademark grin. “Yeah, like you don’t know where to find me.” Baird wiped his hands on a rag. “What is it?”

Cole ignored the question to stare at Sam’s bike, and gave Baird a knowing look. “Well, well. Looks like you won’t be needing a Cole Train charm lesson after all.”

Baird shrugged, and busied himself tidying up his work area. He heard Cole sigh amusedly behind him. Cole continued. “If Sam was here, I’m guessing you heard the news.”

“That Sam’s going to Anvil Gate? Yeah, I heard.”

When he turned around after putting everything back in its proper place, Cole was staring at him with a slightly puzzled expression. “I figured you’d be a little cheerier.”

And now Baird was thoroughly confused. He had never directly said anything to Cole, but the man had an uncanny ability to read Baird like a book. Something told him that he was out of the loop. “Okay, can we back up? We _are_ talking about the same thing, right?”

A few seconds of silence ticked by before something seemed to click with Cole. His smile slowly grew and he began to chuckle. “Oh baby, Sam’s been messing with you. Hoffman’s transferring us to Anvil Gate, too. See, this wouldn’t happen if you didn’t always have your tac-com on send-only.”

Baird locked up for a couple seconds as he tried to figure out what reaction to settle on. He hoped that Cole hadn’t noticed the dumbstruck look on his face before he quickly replaced it with one of annoyance. “You bitch…” he grumbled to himself. Then he turned his attention to Cole, trying his best to look disinterested. “So who’s all going?”

“Us,” Cole gestured to the pair of them, “Sam and Carmine. Some of the local Stranded are getting pissy.” He started backing towards the elevator in a not-so-subtle attempt to drag Baird out of the isolation of his garage. Baird followed him anyway.

“What about Marcus and Anya? I figured Hoffman would jump at the chance to get the old crew all back together.”

Cole’s grin faded. “I think he wants to give Marcus a bit of a break. Y’know, after all he’s been through.”

Ah, yes. Everybody’s favourite euphemism, so they could avoid saying the names of Dom and Adam Fenix. Those wounds hadn’t healed yet; sometimes Baird wondered if they ever would. But then again, he rarely ever saw the sergeant without Anya—so there was proof a person could move past tragedy.

They stepped into the elevator. “Old bastard’s getting soft,” Baird remarked, folding his arms across his chest.

“Baby, you’re all heart.”

“Yeah, you know me.” Baird was already mentally organizing his kit bag. And trying to figure out just how he’d be repaying Sam’s little ruse.


	3. No Place Like Home

“ETA ten minutes to Anvil Gate.” Mel Sorotki’s voice crackled over the radio. “So put away your knitting.”

Sam opened her eyes and gazed out the Raven’s bay door. The last time she had checked out the surroundings, KR-239 had been flying over a seemingly endless expanse of ocean. This was the first time she had made the trek from Azura to Anvegad above the water. She had initially been intent on watching the scenery change, but looking at the ocean was only entertaining for so long. And since Baird was giving her the silent treatment, she’d opted to snooze for the rest of the long flight.

They were definitely close to Anvegad; she recognized the landscape. Suddenly, Sam felt nervous. It was a stupid thing to feel—she was coming home. Nonetheless, she still felt anxious. The last time she’d been at the garrison, there had been no time to get sentimental or weepy. They had arrived under heavy fire and had left before the shaky relief of surviving a Lambent Berserker had worn off. This time, she knew they would be staying for a while. She hadn’t been home in sixteen years. There would be painful memories here.

Cole seemed to sense her discomfort, as he gave her a reassuring pat on the knee. She smiled at him, and went back to watching the passing scenery. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Baird crammed up against the side of the Raven. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep; his face was locked in its usual scowl. Sam smirked. Yeah, he was still pissed at her for her little stunt. It was worth it, though.

About ten minutes later, Sorotki announced that they were landing. “It was nice flying with you guys. Don’t worry about me and Mitchell—we’re going to about a hundred rousing games of cards while we wait around for you guys to need us to save your asses.”

Baird grabbed his kit bag and hopped off the Raven as soon as it landed. For the last hour or so of the trip, he’d been itching to stretch his legs. As the others disembarked, he noticed two figures making their way towards the Raven. It was Bernie and Dizzy. Bernie looked far too pleased for Baird’s liking; he made a pointed effort not to look thrilled.

“There’re my boys!” Bernie greeted them after the Raven’s blades slowed to a stop. “How’s island life treating you?”

“Oh, fine,” Baird answered. “We’ve been redecorating the hotel with skins of newly discovered species—taking a page out of your book, Granny.”

Bernie swatted at his arm, still grinning. She turned her attention to Cole, who looked significantly happier that he was on solid ground. Dizzy tipped his hat to the group, but headed straight for Sam.

“Nice to see you again, Diz.” Sam beamed at him. Baird had forgotten how well the two of them got on.

“Likewise, Sammy.” Dizzy took her kit bag from her, just like a gentleman. “My girls are gonna be mighty happy to see you again. They’ve been antsy all day.”

Dizzy had been on the first Raven out of Azura to get back to his kids. His twin daughters, Teresa and Maralin, idolized Sam. It wasn’t hard to see why. All the other women they had to look up to around here were from Pelruan, and saw Stranded as the scum of the earth. Yeah, Baird felt that way too—but Dizzy wasn’t Stranded now; he’d made the smart choice, unlike the rest of the lawless assholes. But Baird didn’t exactly expect anyone from Pelruan to be the next humanitarian workers.

Baird hoped no one counted on him coming to any reunion that involved kids. He didn’t have a problem with Dizzy’s kids specifically; in fact, he’d never actually met them. Baird just didn’t have the temperament to put up with bullshit or idiots.

“Where’s your old man?” he asked, nudging Bernie.

“His office, with Gavriel, Pad and Rossi.” Bernie started walking towards the fort. “They’re waiting to brief you.”

“Can we dump our stuff first?" 

“Better wait. Gavriel’s been pretty restless since he found out all of you were getting called in.” Bernie shook her head with amused exasperation. “Delta’s a regular mini-army, but you blokes don’t have to save the world every time you suit up.”

They were walking up the main road of the city. Suddenly, Baird was extremely conscious of the fact that all the civvies were staring at him. Creepy. He kept his eyes straight ahead and wondered what the barracks inside the fort would be like. There hadn’t exactly been time for a tour the last time they were here.

“Shit.”

Sam said it so quietly that at first Baird wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard anything. He walked a few more paces before he realized that everyone else had stopped. He turned around to see the others all watching Sam, who was gazing at one of the houses with a look of longing on her face. It caught him off guard for a second before he remembered that she wasn’t one for hiding her emotions.

Baird walked back to the group. He opened his mouth to ask what the hold-up was, but Dizzy beat him to it. “What is it, sweetie?”

Sam didn’t look away. “That’s where I used to live. With Mum.”

Baird glanced at the house. It was definitely a fixer upper; the wooden porch was decaying, and he could see patches of newer material along the walls. A middle-aged woman was washing down the front windows.

This was one of those moments where Baird was reminded just how out of his depth everything was. Dom would’ve known what to do. Baird squeezed his eyes shut briefly as imaginary pain stabbed at his chest. Damn, he still missed Dom. The extent of his grief took him by surprise, which was why he tried to forget about it. But every once in a while some feeling would break through.

Sometimes he missed the days where he hadn’t cared about anyone.

His eyes flicked to Sam; he felt like he should do _something_ … but, knowing him, he’d probably just make it worse. So he opted for keeping his mouth shut and not blurting out some insensitive comment to try and change the mood. A few moments later, Sam seemed to snap out of it. She grinned awkwardly, and motioned for everyone to continue walking. Baird turned away before she could look at him.

Hoffman was waiting in his office, his back to the door, glaring at a local map. Drew Rossi and Pad Salton stood just behind him. Lewis Gavriel, the mayor of Anvegad, was sitting in a chair near the doorway, looking exhausted. Baird almost felt sorry for the poor bastard; ever since the COG had shown up, every city he led seemed to end up in deeper and deeper shit.

“We’re all here, Vic.” Bernie announced their arrival. “Let’s get started.”

Hoffman turned to face them, all professionalism. Baird suspected if it weren’t for Gavriel, the briefing would have been noticeably more casual. “All right, people, here’s the situation: local Stranded have been setting up roadblocks for our fuel shipments from Helvekad. The Gears and personnel at the refinery have also experienced minor vandalism. I suspect that something is brewing in the local camps, so I’ve called you in as damage control, should shit hit the fan.”

“Ungrateful assholes,” Baird muttered. “How many times have we saved their lives?”

Cole nudged him. “Be nice. ’Sides, keeps us out of retirement for a few more weeks.”

Baird snorted, but didn’t say anything else. If Cole was serious—seriously worried about being out of a job—then the man was deluded. There would always be work for the military; it was the human condition. 

Hoffman went on about his strategy for a while, which more or less consisted of having at least two Gears awake at all times and sitting around, twiddling their thumbs. Baird wasn’t thrilled; he’d been called away from the comfort of a frigging five-star hotel to a small, cramped garrison over a tiny group of unruly assholes. He wasn’t looking forward to wandering around Anvegad, bored out of his skull.

The debriefing barely lasted ten minutes. As the others left the office, Baird approached Hoffman. “Hey, if we’re not expecting a full-scale assault any minute, you have anything for me to do?”

A few of the frown lines on Hoffman’s face disappeared. It was the closest Baird had ever seen him come to smiling. “I’m sure I can find a use for a surly mechanic.”

 

* * *

****

The next few days passed without incident. Sam was almost disappointed; part of her had been looking forward to mindless action-reaction state that combat put her in. Instead, she was left with too much time to herself in a city with too many memories.

The last time she had been home—when Anvegad really _was_ home, and not just yet another battle site between the Locust and Lambent—was a few weeks before Prescott had announced the Hammer of Dawn counterattack. Sam had been home on leave visiting her mother, trying to convince her that joining when she was sixteen had been the best choice in the long run. It gave Sam a chance to escape the fate that the Fortification Act had in mind for other women of her age.

And then the Ostri Republic had collapsed. Sam was called back to the frontlines, and before she even had time to settle in, the civilians were ordered to retreat to the Jacinto Plateau.

Sam stopped herself before she could get any further. Agonizing over the past did nothing. She got up off her bed. There were a couple hours to kill before her next patrol shift, which promised to be dull. Bernie, Cole and Carmine were out at the moment—probably seeing more action from the squirrels than the Stranded. Sam needed to find something to do to stop herself from reminiscing.

Baird would probably be in the workshop around the back of the fort. Pissing him off never failed to put her in a good mood.

Sam arrived at the workshop a few minutes later. She slipped inside without knocking. In the centre of the room, Baird was sitting on a wooden stool, his torso stuck inside an open panel on an APC. Metallic clanking sounds filled the air, conveniently masking her stealthy approach. She waited until she was right behind him before announcing her presence.

“ _So_.” She said it louder than necessary, and it had the desired effect. Baird jumped in his seat and slammed his head on something inside the APC.

He swore vehemently, emerging from the inside of the vehicle. He glared up at her, rubbing the back of his head. “Would it kill you to knock?”

“Good to see you’re so tuned in to your surroundings.”

“Oh yeah, ‘cause if these past couple days have taught me anything, it’s that I need to be on my toes all the time.” Baird glowered at her for a few more seconds. “If you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful. Grab me a wrench.”

Sam grinned at the relenting anger. “Say please, and I might not throw it at your head.”

He shot her an unimpressed look. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” He paused, probably debating between telling her to shove off and actually asking for something nicely. When he finally spoke, his voice was slightly strained. “Frigging _please_ , then. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

She sauntered over to his toolbox and retrieved a wrench. As she turned back around to face the APC, she caught Baird quickly looking away. Any other man would have probably earned a left hook to the jaw, but Sam knew from experience that Baird didn’t mean any harm by it. Besides, his poor little brain was probably going berserk trying to figure everything out.

“Need any help?” she asked, handing him the wrench.

He scoffed. “Uh, I don’t think so. This is a little more complex than your bike.”

Sam leaned against the APC. “Are you calling me stupid?”

“Nope, I’m calling you _normal_. But I happen to be a genius.” Baird took a flashlight out of his tool belt and popped it in his mouth. Wrench in one hand, he disappeared back inside the panel and twisted his body at an angle that could _not_ be healthy.

“Hey.” Sam rapped her knuckles on the metal next to the opening. “I can at least hold the flashlight so you don’t look like a complete barmpot." 

Baird reappeared and removed the flashlight from between his teeth. “ _What_ did you just call me?”

“Well, it doesn’t mean _genius_.” Sam took the flashlight and crouched down beside him.

“Whatever. Shine it here.”

Sam did as he asked. For a moment, she mourned the loss of her rat bike; it would have made the otherwise boring patrols infinitely more enjoyable. But it had been an emergency transfer, with no time or room for nonessentials. It had been surprisingly difficult to leave the bike behind, for reasons she didn’t fully understand. Part of her wondered if she would miss having a casual excuse to spend time with a certain mechanic.

Her earpiece crackled. “Rossi to Byrne. Bored yet?”

She pressed a finger to her ear. “Absolutely out of my mind. Why? You have something in mind?” Baird looked at her questioningly, and she mouthed Rossi’s name.

“A fuel shipment’s leaving Helvekad in about an hour. Hoffman wants us to escort the truck. You in?”

“You bet your ass, Sarge. We’ll meet you at the front gate.” She ended the transmission.

“What was that all about?” Baird asked.

“We’ve finally got something to do.” Sam got to her feet, and grabbed Baird’s arm to pull him up as well. “Armour up.”

 

* * *

****

The hour-long ride to Helvekad was as uneventful as Baird had expected, but at least it got him out of the fort. He was starting to think this whole transfer had been a colossal waste of time and resources, but like hell would he be taking that up with Hoffman. Coming to Anvil Gate hadn’t been a _total_ loss, anyway.

Sam’s laugh filled the Packhorse, brought on by some joke from Rossi that he’d missed. Baird glanced around the cramped vehicle: Rossi was driving, keeping the Pack level with the fuel truck, with Sam in the passenger seat. Baird was crammed in the back, between Cole and Pad Salton, who was cradling his Longshot in his lap. But Cole and Pad seemed to be hitting it off, so Baird was free to sit in apathetic silence and glare at the back of Rossi’s head.

The other three members of Rossi’s squad were in a second Packhorse driven by Carmine, trailing behind the tanker. Baird couldn’t figure out why Rossi would opt to drive this Pack and leave Carmine with his squad, but he didn’t care enough to speculate.

Baird was about to make a snide comment about Hoffman and Bernie shacking up in their absence when the tanker exploded.


	4. Inside the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot finally arrives.

The explosion engulfed the tanker in a ball of swirling orange and white. Everything went completely haywire. Suddenly Baird couldn’t tell which way was up any more. The roof came rushing towards his head, smashing into him and jolting him forward. Stars exploded in front of his eyes. Everything was black and he was floating. But he didn’t have time to enjoy the weightlessness before he was slammed back to reality.

He was being dragged over debris and dirt, the sounds of gunfire far off in the distance. Someone started shaking his shoulder, and he could barely hear Cole over the cotton in his ears. “Get up, baby, now’s not the time for a nap!”

Baird opened his eyes, but it was a few seconds before his brain could translate what he was seeing. Sam, Carmine, Pad and Rossi were standing on either side of him, Lancers trained at the trees. Rossi’s finger was jammed in his ear but Baird couldn’t make out what he was saying. Some sound he couldn’t hear over the ringing noise in the background made Carmine whip around and squeeze off a couple rounds into the forest. 

“ _Down!_ ”

Baird was in the middle of pushing himself up when Cole shoved him back to the ground. Something sailed over his head, exploding a few feet away.

God, his head was killing him. There was definitely something in his hair. He rubbed the top of his head and his hand came away sticky with blood. Oh, good. The smell and heat from the charred tanker were assaulting his already bewildered senses.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, his own voice sounding far away.

“Boomshot.” Cole smiled grimly. “First grenade took out the tanker—we’re lucky the Pack only flipped.”

Groaning, Baird craned his neck. Yeah, Cole was right: they had been lucky. The tanker was a smouldering ruin—there was no way the drivers had walked away from that. Poor bastards. The Packhorse that he had been riding in had completely flipped over, one side blackened and crumpled from the explosion. There was no salvaging it, with its windows blown out and the undercarriage mangled. The second vehicle looked relatively unscathed, which was good seeing as they were all using it for cover.

“We’re so dead.” Baird got shakily to his feet. Cole tossed him his Lancer.

“Sorotki and Mitchell are en route,” Rossi cut in. “So let’s try to survive another fifteen minutes.”

Carmine suddenly threw himself against the Packhorse. “ _Contact!_ ”

A burst of gunfire peppered the hood of the Pack and everyone dropped to their knees. Baird’s heart rate skyrocketed as his foggy brain realized he was in danger. Shit, one month off and his reaction time had slowed right down. 

“Somebody find my bloody Longshot!” Pad called as he fired into the trees. “I lost it when we flipped.”

No one had the chance to reply before another Boomshot shell came flying towards them. Luckily, whoever was shooting hadn’t mastered the grenade launcher, and the projectile landed a few feet to the left. Dirt exploded in a column out of the ground, raining over Baird. Pad seemed to see something, and sighted up his Lancer. He let out a whoop after a short burst of fire.

“Got ‘im! Keep that area covered so his pals don’t go after his gun.”

There was a loud _crack!_ and something heavy pinged off the top of the Pack, close to Pad’s head. Baird’s gut clenched up. Even after a month he could still recognize that noise. “Shit, they’ve got a sniper.”

Rossi swore under his breath. “We’re not going to last until the Raven gets here. That bastard’ll keep us pinned down while his buddies flank us.”

“Get me my Longshot,” Pad said, “and I’ll stop him.”

One of the guys in Rossi’s squad made a beeline for the destroyed Pack. As he crouched down to search the wreckage, another crack rang out and the Gear fell forward, clutching his arm. 

“Martens!” Rossi swore again. “We need to take that sniper out!”

Sam took advantage of the sniper’s reloading time. She darted towards the wreck and dropped to her knees, brushing debris out of the way. A few seconds later she found Pad’s Longshot and jumped to her feet. Her face was set in a way that made Baird’s stomach churn. She threw herself back into cover as the hidden sniper took a shot at her.

“Cover me.” Sam quickly checked the Longshot for damage.

“Whoa, hang on.” Baird grabbed her shoulder. “Let Salton do it. Mataki’s always going on about how he was one of the best snipers in the Pendulum Wars.”

It was definitely the wrong thing to say; Sam’s face darkened. “I can _do this_ ,” she snarled, shrugging off his hand. Without a second’s pause, she bolted off towards the trees. A dishevelled man appeared in front of Sam, armed with a Hammerburst. Before Baird could react, Sam smashed the butt of her rifle across the would-be attacker’s face, dropping him.

“Shit!” Baird fired at the spot where the man had fallen, making sure he couldn’t get up and follow Sam.

“What the bloody hell is she doing?” Pad asked angrily, shooting at two other Stranded attempting to flank left.

Baird ignored the Islander, choosing instead to yell futilely at Sam’s slowly disappearing figure. “Get your ass back here! You’re leaving us shorthanded! Sam! _Sam!_ ”

 

* * *

****

Sam sprinted through the forest, attempting to ignore her seething anger. But no matter how hard she tried to push it aside, it burned at the edge of her focus and her chest tightened uncomfortably. Padrick Salton might have been one of the best snipers in the Pendulum Wars, but that age was long past. The man was over fifty; his eyesight couldn’t still be in pristine condition. That Baird, of all people, doubted her stung more than she expected.

She could do this. She _would_ do this.

The sounds of the firefight had faded into the background, making it easy to pick out the distinct noise of a sniper rifle discharging. She’d narrowed down the nest to one small area, and was now approaching it from the west. If she could get into a tree a couple hundred yards away, she would be able to take out the sniper effortlessly.

A shot rang out, making Sam wince. She hoped the bastard’s aim hadn’t improved since she’d left her friends.

Sam stopped behind a promising-looking tree, the branches of which she should easy be able to lie across. A few nimble moves later she was off the ground, sighting up her Longshot. As much as it pained her to wait, she could only narrow down the potential hiding places after the sniper fired again. Her eyes swept over the field of vision, trying not to linger on one spot for too long, searching intently for any subtle movement.

Minutes ticked by without a sound, and Sam began to suspect something was wrong. The shots she’d been hearing were much closer together. Unless the sniper had slipped away unnoticed—doubtful—then she was missing something. She got that telltale tightness in the pit of her stomach, a sure sign that shit was about to go down.

Something glinted from the trees in front of her. Instinct rather than presence of mind had her rolling slightly to the left. Her brain registered the explosion of pain before she even realized she’d been hit. A split-second later, she felt the impact of the bullet slamming into her left shoulder.

The impact ripped her arm back in her socket, slamming her back onto her side. Blood splattered across her cheek. A cry of agony tore out of her throat. She curled up into a ball, despite her combat training screaming at her to get back up. She had to _move_. The bastard was reloading as she was curled up like a helpless child, readjusting his aim, getting ready for the kill shot.

_Move, damn it. Move!_

She had a small window of opportunity now, and the blinding pain couldn’t distract her. That glint—she’d seen where the bullet broke through the branches and leaves. Sam forced herself back into sniping position. It was do or die now. She aimed, let out a breath, and squeezed the trigger.

For one heart stopping moment, Sam thought that she’d actually missed, and prepared for the inevitable bullet to pierce her forehead. But nothing came. A few seconds later, the branches of the tree she was still aiming at shook. A body tumbled out, landing face down on the ground with a dull thud. It didn’t move. Sam allowed herself a moment of smug satisfaction—she wondered if Pad Salton, with all his renown, could have made that shot.

The adrenaline started to ebb from her body. Her shoulder bloody _hurt_. She’d never been shot with a heavy calibre round before. And she still had to get out of this tree. Sam dropped the Longshot from the branches, because there was no way she was getting down with that thing slung over her shoulder. She wrapped her good arm around a bough and swung her legs down to brace against the tree. Readying herself for more pain, Sam quickly moved both of her arms into a hugging position, pressing her body against the trunk. From there, she began the very slow and graceless process of shimmying towards the ground. The bark dug in to her exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the throbbing ache in her shoulder.

Amazingly, she managed to reach the ground without falling. Sam mentally congratulated herself as she picked up her Longshot and stumbled towards the body. She stuck her toe under the man’s shoulder and flipped him onto his back. A sniper rifle lie exposed on the ground; it was an older model, one that had stopped production around the time Sam was born. That probably explained why the bullet hadn’t completely torn apart her shoulder.

As she stared at the hole in the man’s head, Sam realized there was something cold running down her left arm. Gingerly, she pressed her palm against her injured shoulder. When she pulled it away to look, she stomach lurched: there was a lot more blood than she had anticipated. Her training took over instantly. She shoved her hand into one of the pouches on her belt—the one that contained field medical supplies—and pulled out an emergency medical tourniquet. It was little more than a hand pump and an inflatable sleeve, but it would have to do. She wrapped it around her shoulder as best she could and began inflating it. The pressure against her wound was excruciating but it was better than bleeding to death.

When the sleeve would no longer inflate, Sam stopped her pumping. A sudden burst of light-headedness had her steadying herself against the nearby tree. She waited until the stars faded out of her vision before pressing a finger to her earpiece.

“Byrne to Rossi. You guys still alive?”

There was no sound, not even the static when she was waiting for someone to reply. She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Sam took the tac-com out of her ear; it was blackened and dented. The damage must have happened when the Packhorse flipped. She cursed herself for not checking earlier. Now she was out in the forest, alone and bleeding, with no way of contacting her comrades. And if her tac-com had blown out, no one would be able to access her GID reading either. 

There was only one thing to do: try to make it back to the squad on her own. Maybe someone would be smart and come looking for her, but Sam wasn’t going to hold her breath. She trudged off in the direction that she thought the Pack was in,

 

* * *

****

Baird knew that the sniper had been taken care of when he realized his head should have been blown off.

He’d been out of cover about ten seconds too long—plenty of time for a competent marksman to sight him up and pull the trigger. But he wasn’t dead. He glanced around, trying to stifle his giddy relief at the near miss. Cole seemed to have drawn the same conclusion; his face was slowly recovering from an alarmed expression that was probably brought on by expecting to see his buddy’s head explode.

“Sam musta got her man,” Cole said.

“Lucky for us,” Baird answered bitterly. “Sorotki’s taking his sweet time.”

As if in answer, the rhythmic chopping of a Raven’s blades could be heard in the distance. Not a minute later KR-239 came into view over the treetops. Sorotki’s voice erupted in Baird’s ear. “Nice to see you guys are still alive.”

With the approach of the Raven, the Stranded realized they were seriously out-gunned. Soon the occasional bursts of gunfire stopped and the foliage stopped moving. Baird only lowered his Lancer once he was sure the Stranded had retreated for good. He was almost disappointed in them; the assholes on Vectes at least had guts. Rossi immediately went to Martens' aid. The wound wasn’t too serious; it would have been much worse if the sniper actually had half-decent aim. But then the bastard had steadily improved as the firefight had dragged on.

“Yeah, thanks for showing up,” Baird snapped.

Cole raised his eyebrows at the venom in Baird’s voice and gave him a warning look. Baird huffed. So maybe there really wasn’t anything Sorotki could have done to get here faster. But that didn’t stop his temper from flaring.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Mitchell answered. “Any casualties?”

Rossi took over. “We’ve got one injury, T2. And Byrne’s tac-com is offline.”

Baird’s stomach lurched painfully. When Sam showed up he was going to tear her a new one. “I’ll go look for her,” he volunteered, folding his arms across his chest. Unease and anger warred inside him.

Rossi nodded. “All right. The rest of you, round up any weapons you can find. No point in leaving firearms lying where the assholes can pick them up later.”

The downdraft from the Raven sent dirt flying in all directions. Sorotki set it down nicely, and Mitchell jumped out of the crew bay, heading straight for the injured Martens. Baird set off in the direction Sam had gone; he hadn’t walked five feet when Cole jogged up behind him.

“You don’t think I’m gonna let you wander off alone, do ya?” Cole smirked and nudged Baird jokingly. “’Sides, I gotta make sure you don’t kill Sam.”

Baird rolled his eyes, but didn’t contradict his friend. Now that his self-preservation instincts weren’t controlling his every thought and action, his fury managed to squeeze out from underneath the rock of indifference. Yeah, he was pissed. He might actually need Cole to stop him jumping on Sam when they found her.


	5. Weight of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing style could be described as: more commas than necessary

Sam was beginning to realize just how very screwed she was.

She had no idea how long she’d been stumbling around in the forest; it could have been ten minutes or an hour. Despite the fact that she grew up in this area—she _knew_ this area, damn it—she had absolutely no clue where she was going. A while ago she’d heard the sound of a Raven, but she hadn’t been able to follow it. Frustration should have set in by now but instead she just felt tired.

Her knee buckled suddenly and she fell, but she managed to spring her hands out in front of her to stop herself. Her left arm jarred as it connected with the ground. Pain exploded in her shoulder; she didn’t even try to stop herself from swearing. Sam stayed in that position for a few moments, waiting for the burning to die down—and trying to decide if it was worth getting up.

A drop of red oozed out from underneath the tourniquet and splattered on the grass beneath her. Sam had almost forgotten she was bleeding. But then her brain started working again. She wasn’t just bleeding, she was _bleeding out_ —granted, slowly, but there was definitely a ticking clock. Things started to make sense: the blood loss was affecting her sense of direction.

Sam forced herself to her feet. She was _not_ going to die out here. It was a stupid, weak way to go. And she still needed to rub her victory in Baird’s face. If anything was going to motivate her, it was the thought of Baird’s smug expression faltering as she returned triumphantly. Defiance bolstered her and she grinned weakly. Yeah, that would be worth all this crap.

But her determination didn’t last long. She began to feel light-headed and she kept tripping over things that weren’t there. Even better, she was starting to hear things. Like her name being called.

“Sam!”

Just perfect. Dying wasn’t humiliating enough; she had to go crazy before the end too. She had to lean against a tree again. Nausea was starting to kick in. She couldn’t control her breathing. Her heart was pounding in her ears, but she could still hear the imaginary voices.

“ _Sam!_ ”

_Oh, wait…_

Sam doubted that her blood-deprived brain could re-create Baird’s pissed off tone so accurately. She plodded towards the sound of his irritated calling. Eventually, she stumbled into a small clearing. Her heart leapt inside her chest: Baird and Cole were about twenty yards away from her, scanning the forest. Cole spotted her first.

“Hey.” Sam waved half-heartedly.

Baird’s head snapped in her direction; he immediately started towards her. “ _You_ ,” he growled. “It’s about frigging time. Where the hell have you been?”

“Oh, you know…” She waved her hand vaguely. Her wit deserted her.

As he neared her, he noticed the blood splattered across her face. The angry expression faded. “Shit, what the hell happened to you?”

“What do you think, you idiot?” But her attempt at irritation only came out as exhaustion.

God, she was tired. She could feel her legs shaking, and walked slowly towards Baird. Just as she reached him, her legs finally gave out. She stumbled into his chest. His hands grasped her shoulders as he tried to steady her. She sucked in her breath sharply, but her curse died in her throat. And a second later, she just stopped caring. She was so exhausted that she’d kill for a nap. Sleep… that sounded good. Besides, she was more or less safe now.

She closed her eyes and let everything just fall away.

 

* * *

****

 Baird felt Sam go limp against him. He had to grapple with her sagging body to keep her upright; the clunky armour didn’t exactly make things easier. “Sam. What the fuck is wrong with you? _Sam_?”

Her head lolled against his breastplate, and some of the blood on her cheek rubbed off. God, it was hard to think straight over the sudden pounding of his heart in his ears.Baird pressed a finger to his tac-com. “Sorotki, I need a medevac at my location, stat.”

“Copy that. I got your GID reading. Status?”

“Byrne’s unconscious and bleeding. So, y’know, whenever you feel like it.”

“On my way.” 

Something trickled down Baird’s arm. He glanced down and his stomach lurched. Blood was seeping out from under Sam’s tourniquet and dribbling onto his shoulder. He forced the concern back down inside and gently shifted Sam into a better position. The sound of the Raven could be heard in the distance. He lifted up the edge of the sleeve and blood bubbled out from underneath.

“Oh, _shit_.”

Sam was starting to pale. This was so not good. He knew he should be doing _something_ , but his brain just blanked. He froze up—whether it was from panic or inexperience, he couldn’t tell. But Cole didn’t seem to be in a better situation. They were both standing there like complete idiots, while Sam’s chest rose and fell with her erratic breathing.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

“Head’s up.” Sorotki’s voice crackled in Baird’s ear as the Raven appeared above the trees. “I don’t want to land on you.”

The Raven hovered a few feet above the ground, with Mitchell crouched at the edge of the crew bay. Baird rushed forward, supporting Sam, and then handed her off to Mitchell’s waiting hands. Cole hopped up into the bird and helped Mitchell to lay Sam down on a stretcher behind them. Baird hoisted himself into the Raven as Mitchell gave Sorotki the go-ahead.

“Let’s make it quick, Mel. Byrne’s looking like a T1.”

_Fuck._

Baird’s fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. Cole patted Baird’s shoulder, but his face didn’t look any more reassured. He was going to have a heart attack. This wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. Guys in his squad got shot all the time. People got injured, people died. Ice poured into his veins at the thought and he clenched his jaw. Shit, it was Eugen on Vectes all over again. It had completely exploded his well-crafted shield of indifference. He’d almost spilled his guts to Bernie over it. 

What was it he had wanted to say to Marcus all those months ago? Oh yeah. _“Caring screws you up, man. Just switch it off. Life gets a lot easier then.”_ He really needed to get used to things coming back to bite him in the ass. But it was true: caring made you vulnerable, and when you were vulnerable things could hurt you a lot easier.

The flight back to Anvil Gate was agonizingly long. Baird had to switch off his tac-com to avoid the radio chatter. Mitchell had alerted the infirmary to the incoming injuries, and Hayman and her team were scrubbing up. But Baird didn’t want to hear any of it. Instead, he stared intently at Sam, watching for the slightest change. Blood was starting to pool on the stretcher, despite the tourniquet. Rossi and his squad were uncharacteristically quiet, as were Carmine, Pad and Cole. For some reason, this seemed to hit everyone hard. Every so often, Cole would pat Baird’s knee, as if to reassure his friend that everything was going to be okay—but Cole’s face didn’t agree with his sentiments. 

Finally—mercifully—Anvil Gate came into view. Sam was alarmingly pale. As the Raven got closer to the ground, Baird could see Hoffman, Bernie, Dizzy and a Pesanga woman standing beside the LZ, a gurney positioned ominously behind them. Rossi and his squad didn’t move when Sorotki touched down, leaving room for Baird, Cole and Mitchell to jump out. Hoffman and the Pesanga woman rushed forward with the gurney as Mitchell and Cole gently pulled Sam and the stretcher out of the crew bay. Baird stood uselessly by, feeling stupidly powerless.

“How’s she looking, Harua?” Hoffman asked, his voice taught.

The Pesanga woman examined Sam as Mitchell and Cole transferred the stretcher onto the gurney. “Not good, Hoffman sah. Lost a lot of blood. We need transfusion and to stop bleeding.”

“Right.” Hoffman turned to Mitchell. “Radio Hayman and Mathieu in triage. Tell them to get out the transfusion kit.” He rubbed the corners of his eyes. “Goddamn, we desperately need a blood bank.” 

Mitchell, Cole and Harua took off running with the gurney; Dizzy jogged behind them. Baird wanted to follow, but found himself unable to move. Bernie appeared suddenly beside him.

“Come on, Baird.” She threw an arm around his shoulders. “If Hayman tries to kick us out, I’ll treat her to my drill sergeant’s vocabulary.”

Bernie steered him in the direction of the infirmary. Hoffman trailed behind them, followed by Carmine, Rossi’s squad and the injured Martens. It was a long, uncomfortable walk. When they finally walked through the door of the infirmary, Baird’s stomach churned.

The sterile smell hit him like a wall. Everything was disturbingly white and tidy. The room was quiet, except for a murmured conversation at the back. Baird’s eyes were drawn to the sound and he felt sick. Doc Hayman and Harua were huddled around Sam on a hospital bed, with Dizzy and Cole standing a few feet back; Mitchell had disappeared. Cole looked up when he heard their footsteps. He waved them over.

Rossi helped Martens to a cot closer to the entrance, and Harua went over to attend to him. Baird walked past them, feeling numb, while Bernie and Hoffman stopped to check on Martens. He could see Sam better now, as Hayman moved to work on her shoulder. Her skin was ashen. Had there always been blood splattered on her cheek?

Hayman turned around, and dropped something tiny into a metallic container. She faced them, her lab coat spotless and her face hard. “I hope no one’s squeamish about blood, because you’re all getting your fingers pricked. I need to find a compatible blood type.”

“Don’t you have records on file?” Baird asked. As soon as he’d said it, he realized what an idiotic question that was.

Hayman shot him a cringe-worthy glare. “No, we don’t have any goddamn medical records. When _Sovereign_ blew up, we were a little more concerned about getting people ashore than boxes of fucking _paperwork_.”

Baird’s mouth snapped shut at his own stupidity. Before he realized what he was doing, his feet carried him towards Hayman. The doctor didn’t hesitate for a second. She grabbed his hand roughly, positioning it over a Petri dish that she seemed to produce out of thin air, and wiped his thumb with some sort of alcohol. She produced a scalpel and without so much as a warning pressed it into the pad of his thumb. A thin line of crimson appeared, which quickly welled up. The blood spilled from his thumb to the dish below. When Hayman was satisfied, she shoved a band-aid into Baird’s chest and pushed him away.

The curt doctor then turned her attention to another vial of blood sitting on a nearby tray table; it was labelled “Byrne”. With an eyedropper, she extracted some of the fluid and dropped it into the Petri dish. Hayman quickly positioned the dish under a microscope and watched it. Baird wrapped the band-aid around his thumb, feeling impatient, frustrated and anxious all at once. And his stomach was still churning, which added confusion into the cocktail of emotions. He’d been in wards before and had never felt so sick.

Suddenly, Hayman backed away from the microscope and shook her head. “Next.”

“What do you mean ‘next’?” Baird blurted.

Hayman turned her death glare on him. “I don’t have time to explain the concepts of blood groups, antibodies and antigens to so-called geniuses. So, by ‘next’ I mean shut the hell up and do as I say.”

Baird’s winced, but there was no point in verbally duelling Hayman; the old hag could castrate a man by looking at him. Cole went forward next, and whispered “Smart choice,” as he passed Baird. The procedure was repeated with the same outcome. Baird expected Dizzy to go next, but instead Hoffman brushed past him.

Hayman sized him up, probably debating whether or not to turn him away. Baird’s fists clenched again, but she yanked Hoffman forward none too gently, before Baird’s temper boiled over. After a few moments of staring into the microscope, Hayman looked up.

“You’re a match, Colonel.”

Without any more delays, Hayman went to a cabinet and pulled out an archaic-looking transfusion device. Baird glanced at Bernie; she looked apprehensive. He didn’t feel so good about this either. Baird was no biology expert, but he knew the strain a transfusion would put on Hoffman’s heart: the man was no spring chicken.

“Are you sure about this, Vic?” Bernie asked. 

But Hoffman’s face was set. “Absolutely positive. Besides, we don’t have time to test every Gear and civilian looking for another match. It’ll be all right, Bern.”

Baird had to look away as Hayman pressed the needle into Sam’s arm. He turned his eyes to Hoffman’s face as the old colonel rolled up his sleeve. A sudden realization dawned on Baird. He’d heard the stories about the siege of Anvil Gate from Bernie and, more recently—in random snippets—from Sam. Oh yeah, he understood Hoffman’s resolute expression and his willingness to step forward.

One Byrne had already died at Anvil Gate under the colonel’s watch. Baird figured that Hoffman would be damned if he let history repeat itself.


	6. Bend and Not Break

Hoffman seemed to be taking having a sizable needle shoved in his vein rather well. His face was the picture of calm composure despite Bernie hovering restlessly behind him. Baird watched them both, his own face expressionless. Cole stood beside him, saying nothing—no hollow words of encouragement—but a reassuring presence nonetheless. It made having to watch everything just slightly more bearable.

Baird wasn’t used to being out of his depth so it caught him completely off-guard whenever it happened. He fixed machines, not people. Speaking of which, he probably could have left by now; Dizzy had ducked out to check on his kids, and Rossi and his squad had dispersed once Martens was bandaged up. Hayman had even made a few bitter comments under her breath about how they were cluttering up her space. There was something somewhere that could use his attention, but Baird couldn’t find it in him to leave. 

He knew damn well why, too. But it was easier not to think about it.

Sam’s skin was decidedly less ashen after Hayman drew the needle out of Hoffman’s arm. The doctor inspected her unconscious patient and nodded curtly. “Lucky for her, that bullet was a through-and-through. I won’t have to dig it out of her shoulder. Tak disinfected the wound, so you can all stop crowding my infirmary.”

Baird watched as Hoffman got shakily to his feet, bringing a hand to his forehead. He hadn’t even taken a step before Hayman rounded on him; she grabbed the colonel’s arm and steered him towards a cot. “You _sit_. You—” Hayman turned to Baird and Cole—“do something useful and go to the mess. The good colonel needs to get his blood sugar back up.”

Cole’s hand on Baird’s shoulder stopped him from protesting. Only an idiot directly defied Hayman and expected to walk away unscathed. Yeah, that doddering old granny façade didn’t fool anyone who’d known Hayman for more than five seconds. Baird’s eyes flicked from Hayman’s stony face to Sam’s still form on the cot. No, there was nothing he could do here. At least picking up cookies was doing _something_.

He and Cole left the infirmary, making for the mess. They didn’t get very far before they were stopped. 

“Hey, Cole! Baird!”

Baird turned around and was mildly surprised to see Lieutenant Donneld Mathieson slowly making his way towards them. There was a small twinge of guilt in Baird’s stomach—he’d been at Anvil Gate for a while now and not once had he stopped in to see the lieutenant. He’d heard Mathieson’s voice over his tac-com, but never seriously thought about visiting. It wasn’t like he and the lieutenant were best pals, but he was one of the few people that Baird would probably miss if anything happened to him.

Mathieson wasn’t in his wheelchair; he had his prosthetic legs on, and Baird was impressed to see that he was only using one crutch. His walking had improved greatly in the short time since Baird and Yanik had taken a bash at making prosthetics.

“Hey,” The younger Gear greeted them, slightly breathless. “I’ve been meaning to snag a minute with you guys. You have time?”

“’Course, baby,” Cole said. “We’re just on a grocery run for Hoffman. Let’s walk and talk.”

They set off again, at a slightly slower pace. Baird expected to be the third wheel in the conversation but Mathieson was intent on talking with him, for whatever reason. He fell into step in-between Baird and Cole. There were a few moments of awkward silence where Baird wasn’t entirely sure if he was the one who should start talking first.

“Would you mind looking at something for me?” Mathieson asked finally.

“What is it?”

The lieutenant grinned. “Before the Gorasni left for Branascu, Yanik sent over some rough plans for new legs. Supposed to be less painful. So, if you’re looking for a side project…”

Baird’s jaw twitched. He missed the early days after the end of the war, when he and Yanik would just shoot the shit for hours. It was about the closest Baird had ever come to having a normal life with normal friends. Of course, he had known it wouldn’t last forever. Not everyone was as open-minded about the Gorasni as Baird found he was; the good old folks of Pelruan weren’t the only ones who held grudges. And, obviously, not all the Gorasni were as roguishly charming as Yanik. The adorable little alliance couldn’t last forever. In a few decades, they might even be at each other’s throats again.

Yanik had been almost annoyingly perceptive, though. Not half an hour into their first chat after the eradication of the Locust and Lambent, and the Disemboweler had figured about that mentioning the _duchashka_ was a sure-fire way to get Baird feeling edgy. That had just delighted Yanik.

“Yanik’s work, huh?” Ah, what the hell. “I can make time. I’ll probably have to tweak it; he never was the best designer.”

Mathieson’s grin was euphoric; it shocked Baird, but he didn’t let it show. “That would be fantastic. I’ll come by the garage later.”

“Yeah…” Baird stopped walking as Mathieson headed towards the barracks. “Yeah, I’ll... be around.”

He turned back in the direction of the mess, but Cole was standing directly in front of him. An enormous smile was plastered across his face. “Look at you.” Cole folded his arms across his chest. “You’ll be starting a charity in a couple years.”

“ _Right_. Because if there’s anything I’m know for, it’s my altruistic attitude.” Baird attempted to brush his friend off. “I don’t like letting projects go unfinished.”

“Uh huh.” Cole wasn’t fooled. “Whatever you say, baby. Can’t hide that you’ve got a heart forever.”

“Let’s just go get Hoffman his frigging ration bars.”

They exited the concrete building that housed the infirmary and started across the small courtyard towards CIC and the mess hall. It was a nice day for the end of Bloom: only a few clouds in the sky, a slight chill in the air, but sunny. Baird remembered someone mentioning that an old commanding officer during the Pendulum Wars painted watercolours of the scenery. On days like today, it wasn’t hard to see why. 

They were about half way across the courtyard when Baird heard the sound. It was a noise in the distance, definitely not from inside the fort—a hollow, metallic punch. Muscle memory had Baird looking up, which confused him for a split second. Normally Gears looked to the ground for signs of an incoming emergence hole or Lambent stalk. There were very few sounds that had trained him to watch the sky.

But then Baird saw the thin trail of smoke stretching overhead. His gut clenched at the same time as he bellowed, “Incoming! Mortars!”

His feet carried him away from his estimated impact site. He could hear the sound of Cole running beside him. Seconds later, the shells hit the ground. The close explosion was deafening and the earth shook; Baird faltered, and stumbled to his knees. He quickly jumped up and turned around to assess the damage.

“Shit, where did that come from?” Cole asked, tracing the fading smoke line with his finger.

“No frigging clue. But at least the jackass can’t aim.”

No real damage had been done. The mortars had missed the buildings and the town; only small chunks of the fort’s northern wall were missing. It wouldn’t take more than a week to repair. But before Baird could feel any sense of satisfaction or relief, there was another metallic punch—louder this time. Two lines of smoke streaked out of the surrounding forest.

“Shit, here we go again!” Baird readied himself to run.

Cole’s hand stopped him. “Those are gonna hit the town! We gotta get those folks to safety.”

Most of the population of Anvegad had come out of their houses after the initial strike. Now they were staring up at the sky, dumbstruck. The Stranded on Vectes had never possessed this type of heavy artillery; they didn’t know how to react. Gears were pouring out of the fort.

Baird swore under his breath, but Cole was already charging towards the wooden houses. Into danger. _Goddamn it, Cole!_ A second later, Baird was chasing after him, calling at the top of his voice, “Move! Everyone get to the fort! Get inside!”

His entire body was screaming in protest; everything was telling him to run the hell away from impending death. But his stupid friend seemed intent on throwing his life away, so Baird had to stop him. Thankfully, Cole’s selflessness didn’t override his self-preservation instinct: he stopped well clear of the area where the mortars rained down. Another series of explosions. People were screaming now.

Hoffman’s voice suddenly roared in Baird’s ear. “Hoffman to all call signs. What in God’s name is going on out there?”

Rossi was the first to get his shit together and answer. “Mortar strikes, sir. Coming from about one klick north of the fort. I don’t—Shit, head’s up!”

Baird whirled around wildly, looking for whatever had spooked Rossi. He couldn’t see any smoke trails from the north, but then he heard the whistle overhead. _Son of a bitch._ He spun around and his stomach clenched. There was another mortar crew to the south. _Oh, shit—_

“Cole!”

Baird turned back to face the houses, his eyes scanning frantically for his friend. Cole had moved further off while Baird wasn’t paying attention, and now he was standing near the main square of Anvegad, waving the civvies to safety. He wasn’t looking at the sky—he couldn’t see the incoming shells— _Shit, shit, shit_ —

Without even thinking, Baird started running towards Cole. He had to get him out of there. If nothing else, he had to make sure that Cole would be safe. That was his top priority, not saving his own skin.

“Cole, look—”

The rest of Baird’s sentence was cut off as the third wave of mortars hit the ground. He was too close to the impact; he was thrown onto his back and stars exploded in his vision. The smell of smoke smothered him. He forced himself to his feet, but froze in his tracks.

Anvegad was burning. He couldn’t see Cole. The house that Cole had been standing beside had collapsed, just a smouldering pile of wood.

Suddenly, Baird wasn’t at Anvil Gate. He was facing a vast expanse of ocean. The sky was filled with Ravens; ships were scattered on the sea. In front of him were Marcus, Anya, Sam and Jace; they were all wearing expressions of hollow grief. There was a void in the pit of his stomach as he let Marcus’ words sink in. _No, not Dom. Fuck, no…_

“ _Cole_!”

He snapped out of his stupor and started running. When he reached the smoking rubble, he dropped to his knees. He started clawing at the pieces of wood, tossing them to the side, ignoring the splinters. Panic like he’d never felt before welled up inside him. Fighting polyps on Vectes felt like a training exercise. Hell, a Gunker was _nothing_ compared to this.

_Just let him be okay. Let him be alive._

He tossed aside a few more wooden beams and finally uncovered Cole. His friend was lying alarmingly still, the lower half of his body still pinned under the debris. A small patch of blood was visible on Cole’s temple. Baird froze up; he had the distinct impression of something shattering. He felt sick, dizzy, like the ground had just been ripped out from underneath him. Everything whizzed in and out of focus as he felt an abyss forming in his chest.

But then Cole took a deep, ragged breath. His eyes were moving under his closed eyelids.

The earth was back, solid, under Baird’s knees. His finger flew to his tac-com as he tried to control his erratic breathing. “Baird to all call signs. I need a stretcher near the main square, stat.”

Mathieson’s ever-calm voice answered. “We’ve got casualties pouring in. How bad is it?”

“I don’t fucking know!” Baird snarled. He felt vaguely bad about lashing out at Mathieson, but he could always apologize later. “A house kind of fell on Cole, so any assistance would be nice.”

The lieutenant wasn’t daunted by Baird’s attitude. “Copy that. I’m diverting a medic to your location.”

“Just make it quick.”

Baird went back to clearing away more of the wreckage, trying to get his shit together. He’d definitely lost it for a couple minutes, and the last thing he needed was some smartass blabbing it all over the garrison. Slow, deep breaths; that was the key. Everything was going to be fine.

“You fucking moron,” he murmured under his breath. He didn’t really know if he was talking to Cole or himself.

 

* * *

****

The infirmary was a much different sight than it had been earlier that day. Instead of the awkward silences and vacant cots, the place was overflowing now. It was hard to hear anything over the medics yelling across the room. Baird stood watching it all, fighting the crushing sense of being overwhelmed that threatened to overtake him. Cole was lying on a cot beside him, still as a corpse. But he was breathing—Baird checked about every five seconds to make sure. As long as Cole kept breathing, the world wasn’t broken yet.

Hoffman was still in his cot, across from Baird and Cole. Every time he tried to stand up, Hayman would appear as if out of thin air, and smoothly push him back down. Each time she did so, Hoffman looked as if he was going to scream. The mortar strikes continued at a slower pace, every ten minutes or so. Hoffman’s eyes would squeeze shut in agony every time the ground shook and the lights flickered; but most of the civvies were inside now. It was too dangerous to patrol Anvegad for those trapped or too afraid to leave; the buildings weren’t stable any longer, as Cole’s accident had aptly demonstrated.

“Baird,” Hoffman barked suddenly. 

Baird started, and turned to face the colonel. “Yes, sir?”

“I sent Bernie to find Rossi. Once they get here, I want you and Carmine to head out into the forest with them. Track down the bastards with those mortars and make sure they don’t fire any more shells.”

Panic surged inside Baird’s chest. “But Cole—”

“Harua Tak will take good care of him.”

“Why not Hayman?” Baird asked. She was the best, or at least held the reputation of being a walking miracle. Isabel Hayman wasn’t perfect, but her name was enough to bring hope to wounded men on the battlefield. She could do anything, save anyone. 

Hoffman gave Baird an unimpressed glare. Yeah, the colonel and Harua went way back—or her husband, at least. “She’s had plenty of practice, dealing with the aftermath of Shaoshi raiders.”

“On _farm animals_. Cole’s not a frigging goat.” Sometimes he really didn’t know when to just shut the fuck up and follow orders. But if any day warranted minor insubordination, it was today.

Hoffman raised his eyebrows, but let Baird’s curt comment slide. “Hayman’s got her hands full with ruptured arteries, burns and internal bleeding. Harua can take care of Cole. And I need you out there to stop those bastards. We’ve got too many injured Gears.”

“I—Yes, sir.”

As if on cue, Bernie appeared at the entrance to the infirmary. She weaved her way through the injured and the surgeons. When she was close enough, Baird could see the tired expression on her face. He could sympathize; everyone had had enough of death, but it seemed to haunt their every move. Too many of their friends had died in the past few months. It was a damn heavy burden.

“Rossi and Carmine are waiting for us.” Bernie said. “Let’s go stop these assholes.”

“Right.” Baird nodded.

Bernie gave him a small, encouraging smile, and turned to head for the exit. As Baird followed her, he went by Sam’s cot. Movement caught his eye. Sam’s face wasn’t serene any longer; instead her expression was one of discomfort. Her arm twitched by her side, like she was trying to move it.

“Baird!” Bernie called. Rossi and Carmine were standing beside her.

Baird ripped his gaze from Sam and continued towards the door.


	7. Justify

Baird knew they were close as soon as Bernie suddenly became completely still and reached for her Longshot.

They had been trekking through the forest surrounding Anvil Gate for about twenty minutes. He and Bernie had gone after the mortar crew to the north, while Rossi and Clay Carmine hunted down the ones to the south. A few more heavy shells had gone sailing over their heads since they'd set off, and Baird found himself stupidly worrying about Cole each time. He was supposed to be _focused_ ; distraction got you killed.

But now that Bernie had tensed next to the tree, all Baird's preoccupation melted away. He kicked into combat mode and dropped lower into the undergrowth. Bernie held a finger to her lips—a gesture he rolled his eyes at—and pointed to the northwest. Baird nodded, instinctively checking the switch on his chainsaw bayonet. His gut lurched as he realized what he was doing. These were _people_. Disgusting excuses for human beings, sure, but human all the same. He couldn't use his bayonet on them; it was meant for the monsters that no longer existed.

He realized Bernie was watching him intently. Trying to brush off his dark impulse, he casually switched his Lancer for the shotgun. No temptation with that. Satisfied with his choice, Bernie crept silently through the brush towards him until she was within whispering distance.

"Two of them, about fifty meters in front of us. One on the mortar, one standing watch. I can try to take both of them out, but the one I don't hit is going to bolt. Get up there and make sure he doesn't get far."

"On it," Baird whispered back.

Without wasting another second, he set off into the trees, moving as quietly as he could in the heavy Gear tackle. As he got closer to the mortar crew, a slow and steady rage began burning in his chest. These guys were the ones who put Cole in the infirmary. Their buddies had tried to kill him only hours ago. Hell, they could even be the same ones who kept him pinned down while Sam went off and got herself shot.

His grip on his Gnasher tightened.

Not long after, he could hear the sounds of people talking up ahead. His pace slowed and he took each step after with calculated care. One misstep onto a twig and everything went to shit. He had to move into position while Bernie sighted up one of the assholes. She didn't keep him waiting long.

Baird had just found a good spot behind a nearby tree when the back of the lookout's head exploded. His Stranded buddy didn't react for a second as the shock locked his body down. But then he threw the mortar to the side and dived into the underbrush. Bernie's second bullet missed him by mere inches. Now he was moving through the trees, and even a champion sniper like Bernie would have a hard time taking him down.

Baird raced off after the Stranded man, quickly gaining ground. This guy hadn't been trained to run through obstacles like a Gear; he didn't even look native to the area. His skin was pale--no trace of the dark Kashkuri genes. And he kept glancing around, darting to either side, like he couldn't decide where he wanted to go. Or maybe he had no idea where the hell he was.

Whatever the case, it didn't matter. Baird caught up to him in under a minute. His quarry realized there was no hope of outrunning the danger, so he reached for his holstered pistol and spun around to face his pursuer. For a split second, everything slowed. Baird knew that he could easily take out the Stranded man before he got a shot off—and he could simply incapacitate him. It would only take a shotgun blast to the legs, and the pistol would fall from useless hands.

But Baird found that he had no desire to take this man alive. It would be a smart idea to have a prisoner; Hoffman would love to interrogate him and find out just what the hell was going on. However, for once in his life, Baird didn't want to do the smart thing. He could still see Cole's chillingly still form half-buried in rubble; he could feel Sam's blood trickling down his arm. And suddenly there was only one option.

The 12-gauge shells hit the man square in the chest. Baird was way too close to miss. The man's eyes went wide with shock and pain, and the pistol slipped from his hands; he never even had a chance to fully draw the weapon. Blood flecked across Baird's face. His victim fell backwards to the ground and didn't move.

Bernie arrived on the scene moments later, lugging the discarded mortar. Baird heard her approach, but didn't turn to face her. He had expected to be shaken by the split-second decision that he'd made, but instead he felt nothing. Only tired. Bernie dropped the mortar and edged cautiously into his field of view; he could tell by the expression on her face that she'd quickly pieced the situation together. Her gaze was not approving, but it wasn't judgmental either. For that—and if he'd been a different man—Baird could have hugged her.

She saw the blood on his face. Wordlessly, she reached out to wipe some of the larger flecks away with her thumb. He couldn't muster the strength to push her hand away. He was just so goddamn exhausted. Bernie stooped down to retrieve the dead man's pistol.

"Come on, Blondie." She gently guided him away from the body. "Let's get back to the fort."

 

* * *

 

Carmine and Rossi were waiting for them at the entrance to Anvil Gate. They hadn't taken any prisoners either, which made Baird feel mildly better. Carmine had a newly liberated mortar propped up against his leg. Baird dropped his own weapon on the ground for a brief rest. He had finally managed to wrestle the thing away from Bernie about a kilometre back, despite her insistence that she could carry it all the way.

Neither Rossi nor Carmine made any mention of the lack of prisoners. Baird couldn't blame Rossi; the sergeant could have easily lost a member of his squad today. And Clayton Carmine had his dark side as well. Anyone who had to bury two brothers was allowed to loose his demons once in a while.

The four of them headed into the fort. Bernie took the mortar off Baird and handed it to Rossi. She obviously wanted to get to the hospital wing as badly as Baird did.

Activity in the infirmary had become considerably less frantic. Most of the cots were occupied, although neither Hayman nor any of her trauma surgeons were in sight. They had probably set up a second hospital wing somewhere else in order to hide the seriously injured. Less psychological pressure on the lightly wounded that way.

Bernie strode right past him, heading for the back of the ward and Hoffman's bed. Baird's eyes went to the cot across from the colonel. A weight instantly lifted off his chest; Cole was sitting up, a big stupid grin on his face. Despite his heavily bandaged ankle and a few scrapes, the man looked no worse for wear. He spotted Baird and his grin widened.

And then Baird realized Cole wasn't the only one watching him. On the bed to Cole's right, Sam was also awake and upright, her arm in a sling. Baird's heart thumped painfully in his chest. Hoffman was in the room. _Bernie_ was in the same room. Baird put on his best disinterested face and sauntered over to his friends.

"It's nice to see the idiots don't always get killed," he remarked.

Cole chuckled and the light insult bounced off, but Sam looked mildly affronted. Baird felt unexpectedly and stupidly guilty. This was what he _did_. He made inappropriate, mostly offensive comments when he didn't know what else he could say. _"I'm so fucking glad you're not dead"_ was hidden behind those jibes, but those words would never leave his mouth.

But somehow, Cole always seemed to hear the real meaning behind Baird's rude quips. "It takes more than that to derail the Cole Train!" he bellowed with his superhuman enthusiasm.

Baird rolled his eyes and turned to Sam. "How's the shoulder?"

Sam blinked at him, like she hadn't expected him to ask. "Could be worse. Could have completely exploded the socket."

He nodded, because he didn't know what else to do. "Lucky for you, then."

That wasn't what she wanted him to say. It wasn't what _he_ wanted to say. But it was all he had.

"Lucky for me." Sam agreed quietly. There was a short pause, during which Baird became painfully aware of the fact that Cole was staring at him. Before he had the chance to say another stupid thing, Sam continued. "Look, I just want to—"

"Vic, what are you doing?" Bernie's frustrated voice cut across whatever Sam was going to say. Baird turned to see Hoffman getting out of his cot, waving off Bernie's hands.

"Damn it, woman, I'm _fine_." Hoffman asserted, standing. "Isabel isn't here to yell at me, and other Gears need this bed." He pressed a finger to his tac-com. "Rossi and Salton—meet me in my office. You too, Baird. We need to discuss the situation."

Hoffman set off with determination, Bernie at his side. Baird threw Cole and Sam an apologetic look. "I'll catch up later, okay?" he said over his shoulder, as he jogged to catch up with the colonel.

 

* * *

 

Rossi and Pad Salton were already waiting in Hoffman's office. A wide assortment of weapons had been laid out on the colonel's desk: the spoils from the attack that morning. There were Hammerbursts, both generations of Lancers, Snub and Boltok pistols, Gnashers, and the one Boomshot that had caused so much trouble. Hoffman took one swift look at the multiplicity of the weapons and frowned.

"This is troubling," he murmured.

"I agree, sir," Rossi put in. "Even during the height of the Stranded insurgency on Vectes, we never saw this kind of arsenal. And adding two mortars to the mix? The bastards are very well equipped, considering we're a long way from any trading routes."

"My thoughts exactly, Sergeant." Hoffman sighed. "We had a bit of trouble with the local Stranded when we first occupied the fort, but nothing to this extent. Their numbers have grown. Someone must be supplying them: both munitions and people."

After that, Baird didn't pay much attention to the meeting. The others talked strategy and repairs, but he had nothing to contribute to the conversation. It was like being in school again. Just avoid eye contact and hope no one calls on you. He didn't want to be here. It was getting close to dusk and he was frigging exhausted. When he woke up early this morning, he hadn't anticipated starting the day with a Stranded ambush and ending it with a hunting trip in the forest.

He wanted to talk to Cole. He wanted to see Sam. He was _going_ to pass out. Over the past month, his body had become accustomed to nine hours of sleep a night. And this was far from over. Somehow, he foresaw a lot of sleepless nights in his future.

"Baird."

Hoffman's voice almost made Baird jump. "Yeah?"

"We're going to need all our vehicles in top condition, in preparation for the worst. I'll have a priority list drawn up tonight and I'll ask Gavriel if he knows anyone that can assist you."

Baird nodded, holding back a frustrated sigh. Yep, he was going to get used to running on minimal amounts of sleep again. Just like old times.

"All right, people. We're done here. Everyone get some rest." Hoffman strode out of his office, but didn't head in the direction of the barracks or the infirmary.

"Vic, where are you going now?" Bernie asked, falling in stride with him.

"The comms room. I need to make a call to Sharle at Azura."

 _Sharle, huh?_ Baird hadn't been expecting to see Marcus Fenix again so soon.


	8. A Fire in Your Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sexy times chapter. Finally.

Two-dozen Gears arrived the next morning from Azura. Baird hadn't been expecting the new arrivals so soon. He figured they'd need more time to pack, but apparently the reinforcements had been flown in overnight. The sounds of the Raven blades hadn't woken him from his sleep, so he must have been really out of it. Small wonder, as he'd worked well into the night tuning up vehicles. He was caught off-guard when he walked into Hoffman's office and saw a familiar bulk of a man at the back of the room.

"Marcus?" he asked stupidly.

The sergeant looked him up and down, and suddenly Baird felt under-dressed. He'd been in the garage when Hoffman radioed him, so he was dressed for getting dirty: an old wife-beater stained with oil and grease, and his tool belt still wrapped around the top of his faded jeans. Marcus, meanwhile, was in full Gear tackle--not the summertime armor that they'd all been wearing when they last saw each other.

Anya and Jace were standing beside Marcus, also decked out in COG armor. And then Baird had another blast from the past as he noticed the fourth figure in the room. His heart leapt up into his throat and his first thought was _Jan!_ But it couldn't be; Jan Rojas had died two years ago, mauled by Wretches in the House of Sovereigns. His younger brother, Frederic, looked hauntingly similar to Baird's old squad mate.

Marcus walked over to Baird as the others familiarized themselves with the local map and terrain. "I heard about Cole." He paused for a second, then added, "And Sam. How are they doing?"

Baird always found the sergeant's ability to see right through people mildly unnerving. Or maybe he was just reading too much into it. Cole and Sam were part of Delta, after all. Marcus had been a little more overprotective than usual since Dom's death. "They're fine. You know Cole; he treats it like one big joke."

"What about Sam?"

There was something in Marcus' eerie blue stare that made Baird shift uncomfortably. He knew. Somehow, he _knew_. Still, Baird found the whole situation awkward. Marcus Fenix was the last person he would ever have a gossip fest with—and _definitely_ the last person to go to for relationship advice.

Thankfully, Hoffman's arrival put an end to that line of questioning. The reinforcements from Azura were all debriefed. Baird hardly put a word in, and he bristled about being ordered away from his massive to-do list. He sat there and listened as everything was explained—how many times had he had this rundown now? Three?—trying his best not to look pissed off. Eventually, Hoffman ended the meeting by drawing up a roster for patrols, and Baird bolted for the door. Marcus shot him a look, like a where-do-you-think-you're-going-we-need-to-talk look, but Baird ignored him. He needed to get back to work if he wanted to stay on schedule.

Ever since the mortar strikes, he'd been running ragged. Hoffman wanted every vehicle in pristine condition in case of a full-scale assault. If an APC had a speck of rust damage, it was sent Baird's way. Add all those to the major repairs, and his garage was at full capacity. And, of course, the work didn't stop there. If anything even _slightly_ technical went wrong, he was called away to deal with that. He was officially Anvil Gate's multipurpose tool. This was all on top of scheduled patrols where he and the other uninjured Gears ran triple shifts. At least the routes were marginally quiet; the arrival of extra troops seemed to have curbed any vicious assaults the Stranded had planned.

 

* * *

 

Things continued like this for about a week. As a consequence, he rarely slept. Most of his naps occurred in the middle of a job, when his body couldn't hold out any longer and he'd slump forward. He'd wake up a few hours later with the pattern of whatever his face had been lying on imprinted on his cheek. He was running on about eight hours of sleep for the week. His body was only functioning the basics; thinking or analyzing just tired him out more. It was almost as bad as sleep deprivation week had been in boot camp.

He wouldn't have even seen Cole at all if his friend hadn't been discharged and they occasionally ran into each other in the mess. Each time, Cole would give Baird a not-so-subtle hint that Sam wanted to see him; and each time, Baird would feel mildly guilty, but then he'd remember his ever-growing to-do list.

His lack of sleep caught up to him once again while he was tinkering with an Armadillo's engine late at night. He was having trouble keeping his head up, when suddenly his forehead was resting against the side of the 'Dill. And he couldn't fight the warm pull of sleep any longer. Before long, he was dozing in a position that would no doubt leave a knot in his neck for the following morning.

A hand grasped his shoulder and shook him. Baird woke with a start, immediately embarrassed that he'd been caught sleeping. He spun around on his stool, expecting to see some civvie, and fully prepared to bark out an insult for intruding in his personal space. But the surly remark died in his throat.

"Hey," Sam said, with a smug grin. She always seemed to take pleasure in catching him unawares. She was wearing sweats and a tank top. _And no bra_ , he noticed—and swiftly brought his eyes up to her face.

"Why are you here?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam frowned, like she'd expected him to be overjoyed at the sight of her. But it was early in the morning and he was in his secluded garage; she didn't just stumble across him. "Hayman discharged me after supper," she answered. "Cole told me you'd be here all night. I figured I'd keep you company…or piss you off. Either one's fine with me."

Baird couldn't help but notice how stiffly her left arm hung at her side. "Shouldn't your arm be in a sling?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. It's just a cloth, really. I can't see how not wearing a piece of fabric is going to muck up the healing process."

Baird grunted noncommittally. Her inability to take things seriously was _really_ starting to grate on him. Didn't she realize that she could have _died_? Yet she stood there, bold as anything, her stupid smug smile jumping all over his last nerve. There was something growing in his chest, an uncomfortable, tight feeling. He realized it was anger. It was slowly surfacing as all the emotions he'd forcibly buried over the past week came surging back all at once.

"You disobeyed orders, you know," he grumbled, getting to his feet. Yes, he could see it again: Sam dashing off into the forest, while rage and anxiety swirled in his gut. She should have listened to him and stayed. Pad could have handled it; Pad probably wouldn't have gotten himself shot either. But Baird never got the chance to tear her a new one because when he found her he had to save her frigging life. And then he thought that Cole had died for about a minute and nothing made sense anymore and he could hardly keep his goddamn feelings in check—Now, when he should be happy to see her, all he felt was the long-ignored fury.

"Excuse me?" Sam asked in disbelief. "I saved your life, thank you very much. And what was your complaint? That I was leaving you _short handed_? How would my staying and Pad going make any difference there?"

 _I didn't want_ you _to_ go. Baird simply steamrolled past that little inconsistency. "You know you don't always have to do it, yeah?"

"Do _what_?" Sam spat back. "Save your ungrateful ass?"

"It's not a frigging _pissing contest_ ; you don't have to prove that you're as good as the boys."

"Yes, I do!"

The tone of her voice put a stop to Baird's rant. She didn't sound so much angry as desperate to make him see. Her response didn't make much sense, either. He folded his arms across his chest. "Please, _enlighten me_."

 

* * *

 

 _Shit_.

Sam couldn't believe she'd actually said that. It would have been easier to just ignore the jibe and plough forward in the argument. But, no, it had slipped out, and now Baird was looking at her expectantly, awaiting an answer.

She really had no choice but to just tell him.

It was a strange experience, deciding to be vulnerable. In public, she always played the part of the strong, tough as nails Samantha Byrne, immune to pain. Not that that persona was a lie; it was a part of her. But it wasn't the _whole_ her. All Gears were actors to some extent, pretending to be okay when they really weren't. Some were better at it than others. Now, she was about to drop her stalwart exterior and reveal her wounds.

 _Shit_.

"I'm a woman; I'll _always_ have to prove I'm as good as the guys." Her heart was beginning to thump painfully in her chest. "I joined the COG when I was sixteen, a year before E-Day. Pissed my mum right off. She figured I'd end up dead like my dad. But, it turns out I was right to join when I did. You remember when Prescott signed the Fortification Act; it established martial law. That's not _all_ it did. The Act let the COG conscript any able-bodied man into the army. It also opened up the birthing crèches."

She noticed the way Baird shifted uncomfortably. Yeah, she knew that he and Delta had been to Jilane a couple years ago. Alex Brand loved to tell the story of how she saved Baird's life.

"There was a girl I knew around 1 A.E. Her name was Janna. She joined when she was sixteen too. Wanted to serve the Coalition, like any good citizen. She wasn't the best soldier. She tried; she just didn't take to it. Then, about a month after the Act was signed, a doctor showed up in our barracks. He was there for Janna. Told her there was a…better way she could serve humanity. She was gone the next morning."

Part of her wanted to ask him. _You went to Jilane. Did you see…?_ But she didn't really want to know. Few of the girls had made it out of the farm, and they were all so different from when they went in. The thought that she could have met Baird under different circumstances, scared and frightened and _changed_ in an overrun birthing farm… No, she didn't want to think about that.

"I told myself I'd never let that happen. I'd make everyone see that they _needed_ me, so no doctor in his fucking white lab coat would every show up at my door. And if that makes me a bitch, that's fine with me."

She was terrified to look at his face, but she forced herself to do it anyway. What she saw there shocked her: he didn't look disinterested or pitying, like she'd half-expected. Instead, Damon Baird looked completely and utterly lost. Sam almost laughed; it was the one expression she never thought to see on his face. Her heart lurched painfully as she thought of Dom. He would have known what to do. He would have put his arms around her, said something comforting. But Dom was gone, and there was only pain in dwelling on him. It was Baird who stood in front of her, Baird who had reached out in his own indirect way, when Dom had only retreated further away.

Eventually, Baird found his voice. "I didn't know, and…shit, I'm sorry." He took a breath, and then tried to adopt his casually indifferent tone. "But you know that Hoffman would never let them take you. He'd throw a fit. Hell, _I_ wouldn't—" He stopped abruptly.

And that was what Sam had been looking for when she decided to seek him out. Just a little conformation to bolster her courage. If she didn't step up now… She swallowed her trepidation and put on her brave face. Folding her arms across her chest, she looked knowingly at him, and finally spoke the words that had been caught in her throat for weeks:

"Can you stop being a candy ass and just kiss me?"

Baird gaped at her, lost for words once again. Sam was suddenly reminded of a goldfish she'd had as a child. She grinned, but only because she was scared stiff. They'd been doing this dance ever since Azura, neither one of them willing to take the risk. But now she'd crossed a line and there was no going back. It wouldn't have been so hard, except a ghost stood between them. The ghost of a friend, and neither of them were quite sure what to do about it. But Sam had to take a chance. She didn't want to end up like Marcus and Anya, tiptoeing around the edge of a relationship for two decades.

He looked unsure, but not unwilling. She took a step towards him, close enough that he could reach out and touch her. Everything hung on the next few seconds; she had made her move, and now it was up to him.

For one heart-stopping moment, Sam thought she'd ruined everything. That she'd pushed him too far, too soon. But then Baird let out a breath that he'd been holding. He pressed his hand to her lower back and pulled her close.

"Ah, fuck it," he said, smirking, and kissed her.

The bottom dropped right out of her stomach; at the same time, a bolt of electricity shot up and down her spine, landing right between her legs. Once the initial shock wore off, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing their bodies together. Sam wanted to go further, but she stopped herself. She didn't want to freak him out, not now. She pulled back slightly.

Baird looked far too pleased with himself. She could have hit him. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" she joked. In answer, he flashed her a cocksure grin. "So why the hell did you take so long?"

"Probably because my heart is a dried-up little rotten apple of cynicism."

She laughed, despite herself. She started to make another jibe, but Baird stopped her with another kiss. Her mouth opened up under him, and she tilted her head up, encouraging him to go deeper and harder. He was more than willing to oblige. Something emboldened him; one of his hands slid under her shirt, up her ribs, and cupped her breast. His thumb lightly brushed over her nipple. She hummed with pleasure into his mouth, which only served to spur him on. He grabbed her waist with his free hand and spun her, so her back was against the 'Dill he'd been working on. A warm feeling began to grow in the pit of her stomach, and Sam knew that she needed _more_.

Baird grunted in surprise as she kissed back energetically. Her hand snaked up to the back of his head and she gripped his hair, forcing them closer together. The depth of her desire took her off-guard, but she wasted no time dwelling on that. _Closer_ , she needed to be _closer_. She kissed him harder and their teeth clicked together. There was the barest hint of copper in her mouth, and she thought she might have split his lip.

Suddenly, she found her hands at his belt buckle. Baird broke the kiss to look down. His eyes met hers and he stared at her evenly, but she could see the desire in his gaze. That he wanted to make sure she was certain surprised her and she found herself fighting a smile. Who was this man that was so different from the one she had met on Vectes?

"Sam, are you—"

She silenced him with a glare. "Just shut up and shag me."

She didn't want him to talk. If he did, she would have time to think, and then she would start to second-guess herself. Maybe this was too fast. Maybe she still had lingering feelings for Dom. Maybe this wasn't fair to Baird if that was the case. But if they didn't talk, all she needed to focus on was the physical. Everything else would just melt away.

He wasted no time. His hands glided down her chest, over her belly, and he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her sweats. In one fluid movement, he dropped to his knees and had her pants down around her ankles. As he stood slowly, his fingers skimmed over her skin, sending shivers all across her body. He tugged her shirt over her head, taking care around her injured shoulder.

And then she was naked in front of him. For some reason she felt almost embarrassed. It had always been like this, with the others. Vigorous Gear training had left her with broad, muscled shoulders that more often than not made her bedfellows insecure. But Baird didn't leer or stare at her like she was a freak. His gaze was appreciative, admiring—and, somehow, that made her squirm even more.

"You have goose bumps," he said quietly.

"No shit. It's freezing in here."

She went to remove his shirt, but her shoulder wrenched painfully. Her limited mobility was beginning to frustrate her, and she tugged at his wife-beater impatiently. Finally, he pulled the damn thing off, smirking as he did so. When his hands went to his belt, Sam shoved them away defiantly, determined to do _something_ herself. To his credit, he didn't laugh at her grit.

And then, _at last_ , they were both naked. Well, naked except for one tiny but important accessory: Baird's goggles. Sam stared at them pointedly, one eyebrow cocked. He shrugged nonchalantly, but she wasn't going to let this one slide. For some reason it was important to her that the goggles came off. The moment her fingers touched the band around his head, he caught her wrist. The impish smile was gone, replaced with unease. And she understood.

These goggles were his shield. They were as much a part of him as his skin and bones. A marker of his personality, and the front he displayed for the world. The asshole mechanic, with no real feelings. But she knew better. Already she was differentiating the man in front of her from the one who had snubbed her in the mess on Vectes. She was pushing through the façade, as he had pushed through hers. This was the last step.

 _When you're with me, you're_ you.

She pulled his goggles off and tossed them aside.

His mouth was on hers instantly, teasing her lips apart. His kisses were fervent, hungry, almost desperate. She could feel his arousal, hot and hard against her. She backed up, stepping out of her sweats, until she was pressed up against the 'Dill. Her back arched at the cold bite of the metal, but he gave her no time to adjust. His hand slid down her back, hooked under her knee, and hitched her leg up to his waist. Her foot found the stool that he had been sitting on, which he took immediate advantage of. Hands on her hips, he moved her into position with a forceful jerk. She raised her eyebrows, a smile tugging the edge of her mouth. But he was focused now, with no time for nonverbal banter. His fingers dug into her skin and he rocked into her.

She bit down on her lower lip as a bolt of long-forgotten pleasure shot through her. God, how long had it been? For one stupid second, she tried to count back the months—the years—and then his hips rolled against her and her train of thought broke. He continued in a slow rhythm, testing her, measured and deliberate, but she felt him struggling for control beneath the restraint.

Her head tilted back and her eyes closed as his mouth sucked a bruise into the nape of her neck. When this was over and her skin discoloured, she'd punch him. But right now the promise of a tiny purple mark didn't matter. Nothing mattered. It was just the cold metal at her back, the heat of his body at her front, the friction between her legs. Her nails carved lines into his back. When he groaned against her neck, she couldn't help but grin.

His cadence picked up and his breathing quickened. Harder, faster— _not yet not yet_ his body seemed to say, but she could tell he was close to losing it. His effort made her smile wider, and she remembered what fun it was to tease him. Her hands glided over his skin, moving gently from back to front. Once her fingertips brushed over his nipples, he grunted, confused but intrigued. Yeah, she was going to make him squirm and writhe, payback for making her wait so long.

She toyed with him, unashamedly and wickedly. Every flick, sweep and touch was designed to drive him crazy. From the way his hips snapped frantically against hers, she could tell it was working. It didn't take much before he lost it. In truth, she was almost disappointed; she didn't even get to use that one move she had learned from a trader many years ago, but not far from this spot.

He shuddered against her, all his muscles relaxing. She laughed lightly, pushing his head up from her shoulder. He smirked at her, trying to cover up something—embarrassment? He was back in defensive mode, locking down anything he didn't want others to see. She couldn't get mad at him for something he'd been practicing for his entire life. Really, she did the exact same thing on a daily basis. Maybe one day they'd trust each other enough…

They stared at each other in silence, both equally confused about what to do next. Walls had been dropped, however briefly, and they had seen each other vulnerable. But Sam wasn't ready to dive head first into this thing just yet, and she had a feeling that Baird wasn't either.

"Well…" she started, joking because it was habitual. "That took you long enough."

He snorted; she chuckled.

It might take some figuring out, but it would be okay.


	9. My Own Enemy

Baird hadn't exactly imagined the turn his night would take. Not that he was complaining, it just wasn't often that he was caught off-guard. Usually these things took planning, preparation and alcohol—lots and lots of alcohol. He hadn't expected to get jumped in his private (and it was _private_ , despite what Gavriel insisted) garage, chewed up and spat out by the week's demands. But then Sam was there and then they were kissing and then they were naked and then… well.

" _Well" indeed_ , he thought, smirking.

As he pulled his pants on, he snuck a peak over his shoulder at Sam. She was fully dressed again—regrettably—but he was more interested in the way she was holding her injured shoulder. _Oh yeah…_ That little detail had slipped his mind. The moment she noticed him watching, she whipped her hand away like she'd been burned.

"Y'know," he said, "if Hayman catches you without a sling on, she'll toss your ass back in a hospital bed. Probably keep you there longer, just 'cause you pissed her off."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "And since when do you care about how much time I spend in the infirmary?"

 _Okay, ouch._ Yeah, he probably deserved that one, but he could also tell she wasn't seriously mad at him. He'd spent enough time pushing her buttons on Vectes to know which tone was the _don't-fuck-with-me_ tone. Still, he humoured her by looking slightly— _slightly_ —sheepish for half a second.

"I might have an invested interest in where you spend your time now."

Sam reached into the pocket of her sweatpants and pulled out a folded white cloth. "Then help me out, if you're so worried about me."

Baird made the appropriate show of huffing as he took the makeshift sling from her, unrolled it and looped it around her neck. As he moved her hair out of the way to tie the knot, the situation became suddenly and uncomfortably intimate. He balked, and Sam tensed up. But rectifying the situation was simple: once the knot was tied, his hand dropped swiftly and pinched her ass. Just like that, everything was back to normal. Sam went to elbow him in the gut, which he anticipated and easily dodged. She rolled her eyes at him, and he snorted, before catching a glimpse at the clock on his workbench.

"Ah, _shit._ " The evening's entertainment had cost him more time than he thought.

"What?"

"I've gotta run a patrol in three hours, and I still have all _this_ crap to fix." He waved his arms around for dramatic effect.

"You just gestured to everything."

"Your perception amazes and astounds."

Sam glared at him. As Baird made to step around her and sit back down at his bench, she grabbed the back of his shirt. "Uh, no. I don't think so. You're going to bed."

He frowned. "If I wanted your opinion, I'd give it to you."

Her grip on his shirt tightened. "I know Hoffman wants all this stuff fixed, but you're no use to anyone on patrol if you're stumbling around sleep-deprived. And if Hayman finds out, she'll throw _your_ ass in a hospital bed and sedate you."

Baird bristled at being told what to do—especially by Sam—but she had that _look_. He was tempted to argue with her, but she'd probably just conk him on the head with a wrench and drag him to his bunk, injured arm and all. Or worse, she'd go and tattle to Marcus.

"Fine, you win. Happy?"

"Not until I see you walk into your room myself."

It was his turn to roll his eyes now. Sam wasn't entirely wrong, and that was what bothered him. He didn't like being reasoned with, and it was even worse when he was wrong. Not that he'd ever admit that; Damon Baird was never wrong. It was a universally indisputable fact, no matter what Nat Barber said.

Still, he allowed Sam to lead him out of the garage, with a firm grip on his shirt like she was afraid he might bolt. The air was chilly, and the early morning dew was going to get the bottom of his pants wet. However, it was going to take a lot more than that to rain on Baird's parade. The sun was just starting to rise, so the night patrol would be back soon.

They were about halfway across the compound before Sam finally broke the silence. "So… now what?"

And there was the rain. Baird wasn't one for planning, and he certainly hadn't been thinking much past getting into bed. A suddenly very appealing thought, particularly if Sam was up for another round.

"I'm willing if you are," he said, flashing her a wry smile.

She smacked his arm. "That's not what I meant. Do we tell people?"

Baird's knee-jerk response was _no_ , but he bit that back. It wasn't because he was embarrassed. Hell no. If anything, he'd love to flaunt his super hot girlfriend all over the fort. But it wouldn't be as simple as that. No, he'd have people butting into the relationship, asking uncomfortable questions that he didn't want to answer. Cole, Bernie, _Marcus_. Could he even call her his girlfriend yet? Baird knew they had to figure this shit out before they paraded their new rapport for everyone to see. So how to say all of that without actually saying any of it, and make sure he didn't offend Sam?

"How about we keep it confidential," he said carefully. "For now. Think of all the fun, sneaking around behind their backs."

Sam grinned. "While that does sound appealing, it won't last. Cole will have it figured out in a week."

 _Maybe, but that gives_ me _time to figure this out._ "Nah, more like three days." He made a face. "And then everyone will know. First one to make a smart comment gets my boot up his ass."

"So should I just kick you now, then?"

"You're frigging hilarious."

"Don't you forget it."

By now they had arrived at the barracks. A comfortable silence descended on them as they made their way down the dark halls. No one was up this early, except maybe Hoffman and Bernie. Baird had gone past their quarters a few days ago on his way to raid the mess before breakfast. The squeaking of mattress springs practically had him running down the hall.

It wasn't long before Baird's door came into view. Sam was bunking down at the end, with Anya and the other few female Gears, in some semblance of privacy. Baird half-expected her to keep on walking, but she stopped with him.

"How long are you running patrol?" she asked.

"Until lunch. About six hours." _Oh._ "Same time, same place?"

That earned him a small, slightly amused smile. "As much fun as being shagged up against an Armadillo was, I think I'd prefer the comforts of my own bed."

" _Your_ bed?" For some reason, Baird felt that this was an important issue.

"Okay…" She cocked an eyebrow. "Any bed will do."

"Mataki's bed. It's about time I traumatized her for once."

Sam pursed her lips and ended that line of conversation. He had half a mind to keep going, just to see if he could get a rise out of her, but she kissed him. Whether it was actually out of affection, or just the desire to shut him up, Baird couldn't tell. Not that it mattered. Before he could really start to enjoy himself, however, she was backing away down the hall.

"Hey." He stopped himself from reaching towards her. "Don't start something you don't intend to finish."

Sam merely smirked, and turned her back to him. "It's called incentive," she tossed over her shoulder. "Get some rest."

"Yeah, 'cause I'm really in the mood to sleep now," he grumbled as he stepped inside his quarters.

 

* * *

 

But that wasn't true. The second Baird collapsed onto his bed, he completely lost the will to move. He tugged at his sheets until they somewhat covered him. Then he remembered he was still in his jeans, but changing was way too much effort at that point. His eyes closed, and what felt like seconds later his wake-up call (namely Clayton Carmine pounding on his door) jolted Baird out of sleep.

Rubbing at his tired eyes, Baird forced himself to his feet. If he didn't move now, he'd never get up again. He pulled on his armor as fast as his sleep-slowed fingers could manage, but Carmine was still standing impatiently outside his door when Baird finally stumbled out. Looked like he was skipping breakfast again.

The rest of the patrol met them at the APC outside the main gate. They were two Gears that Baird barely knew, Steve Martell and Hugh Bradley. Evidently they recognized him, exchanging a meaningful, annoyed look before climbing into the vehicle. No one seemed to be in the mood for making conversation, which was fine with Baird. He settled into his seat, Lancer cradled on his legs, and gazed out the window.

Staring at trees for hours on end, looking for anything out of the ordinary was not the best way to keep Baird's mind alert. He probably looked like a complete idiot, forcing his eyes to stay open as wide as possible in an attempt to ward off sleep. It was tempting to just let his head loll forward and rest against the window, but he knew he'd never hear the end of it if he fell asleep on patrol.

Besides, his thoughts kept drifting back to Sam. A small part of him was still surprised whenever he remembered what had happened mere hours ago. It was bound to happen eventually, he knew. If Sam hadn't manned up, he would have eventually—or so he told himself. What exactly had stopped him? A ghost.

It wasn't betraying Dom. There was nothing to betray, except for any residual feelings that Sam might have. _That_ was what stopped Baird. Granted, he had probably started the whole thing just before Delta had stormed the hotel at Azura, but at that point he had figured he was pretty much a dead man walking. Baird hadn't wanted to be one of those sad, cliché dying bastards, their last moments alive consumed with regret.

Even if the war that had spanned almost half of his life was over, the mentality he had lived in for sixteen years still persisted. Man was still mortal, and often unexpectedly so.

Martell snapped Baird out of his reverie. "Hey, what's that?" the Gear asked, pointing ahead to the right.

Carmine slowed the APC. Both Baird and Bradley leaned forward, looking in the direction of Martell's finger. Sure enough, there was _something out of the ordinary_ up ahead. Hidden just off to the side of the dirt road, it was small and easy to miss, but it definitely didn't belong there. It almost looked like a person, but it was too small. It would have to be a…

 _Oh, shit._ Baird's chest clenched.

Carmine was the one to voice what they were all thinking. "Is that… a kid?"

Baird didn't like kids, but he liked dead ones even less.

Sure enough, as the vehicle crawled cautiously forward, the bundle on the ground looked more and more like a child. The analytical part of Baird's brain took over instinctively, saving him from other obstructive, superfluous feelings. "Must be recent, if Rossi's patrol missed it," he said evenly.

Bradley shot him a look, apparently appalled by his lack of dismay. Surprise, surprise. Baird didn't put much stock in the opinions of others. Ignoring Bradley's scathing look, he started running scenarios in his head. No one back at the fort had reported a missing kid, so it couldn't be anyone from Anvegad. That news would have spread like wildfire. So that left only one other possibility: it was a Stranded kid. Baird didn't know a hell of a lot about the area, but he wasn't aware of any warring Stranded tribes. Besides, they tended to set their differences aside when the COG moved in. Meaning, the kid wasn't a casualty of infighting. Meaning, something else was responsible—something they didn't know about.

_Frigging perfect._

The APC slowed to a stop just short of the body. Baird and Martell jumped out first, Lancers at the ready, in case whatever the hell had attacked the kid was still out for blood. Carmine and Bradley—the sentimental types—did a brief scan of the immediate area before making for the kid. There were no tracks on the ground, or at least no tracks that could belong to some hideous, man-eating mutant monster.

"Is it…?" Bradley began, unwilling to finish the sentence.

Carmine dropped to his knees, and placed a hand on the small bundle. It was only as he rolled the body onto its side that Baird noticed the wire. Clay saw it too, half a second later. He jumped to his feet just as Baird opened his mouth to say, "Fuck."

There was a deafening explosion and a bright blast of white light. Vision completely deserted Baird. It was a flash grenade, he realized, probably more than one. All the light sensitive cells in his eyes had been activated, effectively blinding him. His eyes should adjust in about five seconds, but then Baird realized that under the ringing in his ears, he could hear scuffling close by.

Something enveloped his head. His Lancer was knocked from his hands, and then someone—no, two people—forced his arms behind his back. Then he was being dragged away, away from his patrol and the sounds of gunfire.

 _A trap_ , Baird thought angrily, _a frigging trap, and we fell for it like morons. But this moron isn't going quietly._

He waited for about half a minute, until the guy on his right stumbled over something. Then Baird made his move. He lurched forward, taking his herders by surprise. As soon as his arms were free, he ripped the sack off his head and ran. The world was white and excruciating for a few seconds. His Lancer was gone, but the attackers had neglected to take his Snub. He fired two shots behind him for good measure, and then ducked into some trees.

A brief glance over his shoulder, and Baird confirmed his suspicion: two of the local Stranded were hauling ass after him, both sporting retro Lancers. He cursed himself for being so blind; of _course_ it was a trap, not some rare forest creature. If anything out of the ordinary had been prowling in the woods, Mataki would have found it and served it up for dinner ages ago.

_I need to get back to Carmine. I'm not going to last on my own with just a frigging pistol._

But he couldn't turn back. If he so much as tried to double back, the two assholes on his tail would jump on him in a minute. Or shoot him. They had tried to abduct him, but he wasn't going to bet his extremely important life on the slim chance his pursuers still thought he was worth the trouble.

As he ran further into the forest, it got harder and harder to move swiftly. Roots and logs and rocks all lurked beneath the thick underbrush, just waiting to catch his ankle and twist. The cumbersome COG combat boots were designed to stop bullets, not for manoeuvring through trees.

_Maybe if I can make a big loop…_

He was being herded further away from the other Gears, singled out for some reason. Since when did Stranded take prisoners? Not that he should be surprised. If the goddamn Locust had taken captives, it wasn't that shocking that a member of his own species would. He couldn't hear gunfire any longer. Did that mean he was too far away, or that it had stopped?

_Focus!_

It was no use worrying about Carmine and the others now. They were Gears; they could handle themselves. Carmine had survived the Tempest; surely he could handle a couple of assholes shooting at him. Besides, he had Martell and Bradley with him, even if the latter was completely ineffective. Baird needed to concentrate on Baird at the moment (it wasn't often he needed to remind himself about that).

_If I can break the line of sight for just a second, then maybe—_

Whatever brilliant plan he had been devising, it vanished as his foot found a particularly uneven spot on the ground. His ankle buckled, something twisted around his boot, and then he was falling. _Really_ falling, as this happened at the crest of a hill. Of course it did. He tumbled forward, rolling, gathering momentum, arms flailing as he tried to stop his chaotic movement. The Snub went flying off into the bushes. The world spun around him, and he panicked that he'd end up hitting his head on a rock.

Not so. Baird did stop rolling, abruptly. He had a large, jagged boulder to thank for that. His chest slammed into it, and red and white lightning crackled across his vision. Then there was a sudden stabbing pain along his ribs. It grew and spread rapidly, and Baird found himself gasping for air.

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

He looked down, and saw that the stone had dented his armor. The chest piece had caved inwards, pressing down on his ribs, and _fuck_ did that hurt. Logic deserted him as he clawed at his armor, desperate to make the pain stop. A few agonizing seconds later, and the plating fell away. He sucked in a deep breath but his chest still burned. His rubs were definitely bruised, if not broken.

Before Baird had a chance to examine further, his Stranded buddies arrived. They grinned smugly at each other, as if they had somehow masterminded the hole-root-tumble fiasco. Baird reached for his Snub before remembering he'd lost it in the fall. His stomach tightened. To quote Bernie, he was definitely buggered now.

Baird flashed a winning smile. "I don't suppose you guys prescribe to the catch and release program, do you?"

"'Fraid not, pig," one man answered.

The other asshole simply grinned, and slammed the butt of his rifle into Baird's face. He fell forward onto the grass as pain laced across his cheek. His last thought was of Sam; she was going to be _so_ pissed…


	10. Let The Monster Rise

Sam woke at her habitual time, about an hour before the mess opened for breakfast. She groaned and stretched before rolling out from underneath the covers. Somehow she could already tell it was going to be a good day. After a week of being holed up in the infirmary, she was finally free to roam around the fort again. It would be weeks before she would be allowed out on patrol, but at least she could actually get up and move now.

Well, after she got dressed.

Clothes, she could manage, except for one small but important item. That was where Anya came in. Sam stepped out into the hallway and knocked on the door across from hers. She hoped Anya was in, and that she hadn't spent the night elsewhere. There was no way in hell that Sam was going anywhere near Marcus' quarters.

As luck would have it, Anya was around. The door opened a few moments later, revealing the lieutenant, already dressed, a toothbrush shoved in her mouth. She raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

Sam held up her bra and gave Anya a pleading look. "Help?"

Anya nodded and moved aside, and Sam slipped by her. As Sam got a full look at the other woman's room, she paused for half a second. Her own quarters weren't messy by any standards, but this… Anya was so damn _organized._ There were boxes, big and small, neatly stacked around the room, handwritten labels identifying the contents. Everything had its place; there wasn't even a stray sock on the floor. Should she have expected anything less from the former star CIC operator?

"Impressive," Sam offered, sitting on Anya's perfectly made bed.

Anya smiled sheepishly as she set her toothbrush down. "Old habits die hard. My mom liked to keep the house spotless."

There was a brief moment of awkward silence as they both wordlessly acknowledged the connection. Both women had lost their mothers, and neither had passed peacefully. The two shared a sympathetic look and moved on. Sam handed Anya her bra and pulled her shirt off one-handed (she was getting good at this).

"Thanks for helping. This is kind of embarrassing."

"It's no problem." As Anya slid one strap over Sam's arm, her fingers paused at the crook of Sam's neck. "What happened here?"

For a second, Sam had no idea what the lieutenant was referring to. Then a sensation came back to her—a warm, wet presence on her skin—and her stomach dropped. Baird's mouth had left its mark on her and she had no plausible explanation for it. The bruise was on the wrong side to be attributed to her injury, and what else was she supposed to say? _"I slipped and fell on…"_ On what? _How_?

Sam opened her mouth, but all that came out was an intelligent "Uh…"

Thankfully, a crackling in her earpiece saved her from attempting a shoddy explanation. "Sam, Anya." It was Marcus. Right away, Sam could tell that something wasn't right. His voice had that low, hesitant sound—the same way he had sounded before he broke the news of Dom's death to Baird and Cole. "Hoffman's office, ASAP. We've got a problem."

The two women exchanged an uneasy look. Marcus didn't like giving bad news over the radio; he felt it was more personal and comforting if it was given in person, even if he wasn't entirely sure how to console someone. Wordlessly, Sam got to her feet and hurried back to her room. She dressed quickly, throwing on what she normally wore under her armor. Somehow, she figured her gear would be needed soon.

Anya was waiting for her in the hall, already wearing her own armor. There was no attempt at small talk as they walked to Hoffman's office. When they finally did reach the door and stepped inside, Sam knew that whatever had happened was seriously not good. Marcus, Hoffman and Bernie were there, as she had expected, but they weren't the only ones; Cole, Frederic Rojas, Rossi and another Gear that Sam had chatted with a few times—Martell—were also present.

Hoffman waited until Anya had closed the door before he spoke. "The morning patrol was ambushed about half an hour ago."

Years of hearing bad news had taught everyone how to control their facial expressions; but there was still a noticeable increase in tension. Sam felt like a knife had been shoved into her gut. Baird and Clay Carmine were on that patrol. Carmine was pal, always willing to grab a drink. He'd survived a shot to the head and a helicopter crash. To lose him to an ambush was just cruel. And Baird…

"Martell has already made a full report, so I'll summarize," Hoffman continued. "Private Bradley is in critical condition, and Private Carmine is being treated for minor injuries. Corporal Baird is currently missing."

The knife in Sam's stomach twisted. Her eyes darted to Cole, who looked uncharacteristically grim. _This must be killing him._ He glanced at her, and she edged a little closer to him. Marcus stared at them intently from across the room.

Martell jumped in. "We managed to capture one of the assholes who attacked us. He's waiting in one of the cells. Seemed a little too eager to be taken, if you ask me."

"This is new," Rossi said. "The Stranded we know have never taken prisoners before; not back on Vectes, and not the bastards we tangled with when we first moved in."

"That's what worries me," Bernie said, her voice taut. "They've got something else going on. Why go through all the trouble of abducting one of us? It's just easier to kill."

Sam's jaw clenched, but she stayed silent.

"My thoughts exactly," Hoffman agreed. "I thought I'd let you all know the full story before the rumours start spreading. Sergeant Mataki and I will be interrogating our _guest_ when we're done here. I imagine some of you might want to watch."

Cole finally spoke up. "You bet your ass, sir."

Bernie threw him an empathetic smile. "Of course. We'll be doing the actual interrogating, but you'll be right there."

With that, the meeting ended. Sam, Cole, Marcus and Anya hung back, waiting to follow Hoffman and Bernie down to the holding cells. They were in the deepest, dankest, most unpleasant part of the fort. That thought gave Sam a miniscule amount of comfort. It was good that she wouldn't be allowed inside the cell; she'd probably end up breaking the captive's arm.

Suddenly, Sam was uncomfortably aware of Marcus' gaze on her. She turned slowly to face him, keeping her face impassive. His icy blue eyes had that analytical look in them, like he was slowly piecing a puzzle together. She turned back away just as deliberately, hoping she wasn't acting as obvious as she felt. If Marcus thought that her emotions would put her in jeopardy, he was dead wrong.

She had survived after Dom's death. She _would_ survive this, and march into wherever they had Baird and drag his negligent ass back to Anvil Gate.

 

* * *

 

Cole had always considered himself a very mild-mannered man. There were very few things that could make him lose his cool. In fact, Cole couldn't even remember the last time he'd lost his temper. But now, as he crowded outside the occupied cell with Marcus, Anya and Sam, he could feel his composure slipping.

The man inside the cell didn't look threatening. He was scrawny, like most Stranded, but a lot younger than Cole had imagined. He couldn't be more than twenty-five. His beard was patchy and scraggly, his clothes marked with dirt and another stains that Cole couldn't identify. What surprised him most about the prisoner was his skin tone: it wasn't dark like the local Kashkuri Stranded, but pale—Tyran. This guy had come a long way.

Hoffman and Bernie were behind the bars of the cell, having a whispered conversation just out of earshot. Cole figured they weren't really talking about anything serious; it was a ploy to set the prisoner on edge. It seemed to be working. When they had first arrived in the detention block, the asshole had been slouched in the single chair in his cell, looking like a mix between bored and smug. That had pissed Cole right off. But once Bernie and Hoffman had stepped inside and blatantly ignored him, the man's cockiness began to fade.

Finally, Bernie turned towards the prisoner. Cole had half-expected her to play the doting grandmother routine, but her face was hard. No, this was too personal. Hoffman was doing his ice man routine in the corner, glaring down at the Stranded man. Cole folded his arms across his chest and took a deep breath. He found himself watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. She was trying for calm, but he could practically see the agitation on her. If Cole hadn't been worried out of his mind, he might have thought about that a little more.

Bernie only had to give the death glare to the captive for half a minute before he spoke up. "Aren't… aren't you going to ask me something?" he asked haltingly.

"Oh, I think you know what we're going to ask." Bernie walked right up to him, and stood uncomfortably close, arms akimbo. "But you should be worrying about how nicely I'm going to ask you."

"What's your name, son?" Hoffman said suddenly.

The prisoner turned his head towards the colonel, but his eyes never left Bernie. "Elroy Rennoll… I—"

"Write that down, Fenix. I'd hate to have any more unmarked graves."

The look on Rennoll's face almost made Cole laugh. Almost. Although, Cole wasn't entirely sure Hoffman was bluffing. The old colonel had executed a civilian in this very fort for stealing rations; he would have killed Massy back on Vectes, if Bernie hadn't intervened. Now, when someone's life could very well be on the line…

Whether or not Hoffman was bluffing, it had the desired effect on Rennoll. "Hey man, don't get crazy. I—"

"It's _sir_ , you insolent fuck," Bernie barked.

Rennoll gaped at her for a couple seconds before finding his voice again. "I'll tell you whatever you want, okay? I'm _supposed_ to tell you."

That was unexpected. Cole raised his eyebrows at Sam, who shrugged in return. Both Hoffman and Bernie took the admission in stride, though Cole could see that it had unnerved them.

"You're supposed to tell us?" Bernie asked. "I find that hard to believe."

Hoffman nodded. "Sounds to me like some half-assed story an idiot would make up to save his life."

"No, no, no!" Rennoll had a manic smile on his face. He seemed like he was only a couple seconds away from pissing himself. "He told me to tell you. I _swear_. It was all part of the plan. Well, not really. Jonahs was supposed to get taken and we were supposed to disappear but then he got killed and so I—"

" _Who_?" Bernie hollered into his face. "Who's the bugger giving all these orders?"

"Griffin!" he practically screamed. "Aaron Griffin!"

From the way everyone reacted, Cole knew it was bad. Sam immediately tensed up, Marcus clenched his fists, and Anya let out a slow breath. He'd heard the name before: Aaron Griffin, former CEO of Griffin Imulsion Corporation, and a Stranded big shot in Char. Myrrah had attacked his tower about the same time all his workers went Lambent. Griffin hadn't taken kindly to that.

Cole hadn't had the pleasure of meeting the man himself—he and Baird were off trying to track down the Gorasni—but now he was really looking forward to it.

Hoffman strode towards Rennoll from the back of the cell. His face was dark, his hands were clasped professionally behind his back, and his voice was low and dangerous as he whispered into the prisoner's ear, "Where?"

As Rennoll blubbered out directions, Cole and the others silently left the detention block. They didn't speak as they strode across the courtyard towards the barracks. Each would be armouring up and checking their weapons. It was time to get a certain smartass friend back.

_Hang on, buddy. I'm coming for you._

 

* * *

 

Someone was pounding Baird's head like a drum. And his cheek hurt. And there was still a sharp pain in his ribs. Something itched on his face; probably dried blood. He went to feel for a break, but found his hands bound behind his back. His first coherent thought was, _Oh… fuck._

He was sitting in a chair, and he definitely wasn't wearing his armor any longer. That didn't bode well. It was also kind of creepy, to think someone had stripped him while he was unconscious. Two quick jerks of the leg, and Baird found his ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. Even better.

His eyes slowly popped open—one was definitely swollen half-shut. That asshole that'd smacked him across the face was going to pay. Baird forced his head up to look at his surroundings. He was in dusty room that didn't seem to have been used in ages. There wasn't any other furniture, and the room didn't even have windows. The only light came from a dim bulb directly above him. A solitary door was directly across from him.

 _Why is it always me?_ Seriously. First it was that bitch Annalisa in the Jilane farm, then it was the Locust in the Hollow… It was someone else's turn to get captured. This shit was getting old.

"Rise and shine, COG."

Baird hadn't noticed anyone else in the room. If his senses hadn't been numbed, he probably would have jumped. He twisted his neck to face the speaker. The guy definitely made an impression: decked out in black leather and belts, holding some sort of cane, wearing sunglasses, and a gold knuckle plate that read _DRAMA_. Baird's stomach knotted as he realized who this guy was.

"Let me guess: Griffin?"

The Stranded leader didn't bat an eyelash. He looked like a real sourpuss. "My reputation precedes me, I see."

"Ah, not really. A friend of mine met you. Told us all about you. Glowing description, completely accurate."

That seemed to get Griffin's attention. Baird noted a flicker of something—anger?—pass over his face. "This friend of yours… he wouldn't happen to be Marcus Fenix, would he?"

Baird sensed that he might have just put himself in an even worse situation. _Shit_. When would he ever learn to keep his damn mouth shut? Still, it was better to play it cool than show fear. "Yeah. He would."

And then Griffin smiled. "Excellent."

Oh yeah, Baird had made a mistake. Not like that was surprising. He seemed to fuck up on a daily basis. Griffin took a step towards the door. If he was smart, Baird would have let him go. But he'd been expecting answers, and he'd gotten squat. He wanted to know why the hell he was here.

"Hey!" he blurted before he could stop himself. "Isn't this the part where you rant about your master plan?"

Griffin stopped, but didn't turn around. "And why would I want to say anything about that to you, you insignificant fucker?"

It was a start. "So you admit you're planning something?" And if he found something out, then what? There was no way to contact Anvil Gate.

Leisurely, Griffin turned to face him. "If you're dying to know, I'll give you the big picture: revenge."

 _Why am I not surprised?_ Baird couldn't help but snort. " _Revenge_? Shit, what is it with you people? No matter how many times we save your ungrateful asses, you still—"

" _Excuse me_?" In an instant, Griffin's cool demeanour vanished. His face contorted with rage as he stomped back towards Baird. "The fuck did you just say, COG? The _fuck_ did you just say? That you _saved_ us?" He laughed. "That is just fucking precious. You saved us, did you? Well, let's count all the ways you helped us out. You COG motherfuckers are the reason I lost my tower, my _people_."

With lightning speed, Griffin slammed his fist, complete with knuckle plate, into Baird's still-throbbing face.

"You sank your own fucking city. I bet you know how many of _your people_ died when you did that, but how many Stranded? Let me guess: you don't give a fuck."

Another punch. This one caught Baird in the lower jaw. He tasted blood.

"Oh, and let's not forget the pinnacle of it all: the Hammer strikes. That sure as fuck saved our asses, didn't it?"

Griffin glared murderously down at Baird, as if he had been the one to turn the key and activate the orbital strikes. For a moment, he thought Griffin had tired of hitting him. He was wrong. One last punch, this one fiercer than the other two, clocked Baird in his temple. Stars exploded in his vision for a few seconds. When he could see again, Griffin was striding calmly towards the door, as if he had never lost his temper.

As he reached for the door handle, Griffin paused. "Any other times you saved my ass that you want to remind me of?"

This time, Baird stayed silent.


	11. Papercut

Sam had no fond memories of Char. Every time she recalled her experience there, a sliver of glass pressed deeper into her heart. Delta had travelled there right after Dom had sacrificed himself so they could get out of Mercy alive. Desperation had brought them to Aaron Griffin's tower, and with emotions still raw they had confronted the Stranded leader. After fighting their way through hordes of Lambent and Locust, Griffin had raged about how they brought death and destruction everywhere they went. That one had hit a little too close to home, and if Marcus hadn't finally lost it with Griffin, Sam probably would have decked him.

Looked like she might get that chance after all.

Getting her armor on had been easier than anticipated, mostly because she pushed right past the pain. As she walked towards the vehicle compound, the weight of her chest piece began to chafe her shoulder. But she gritted her teeth and picked up the pace. Like hell was some stupid aching pain going to stop her.

Outside, a Centaur had been driven out just in front of the main gates. Marcus, Anya, Cole and Jace were standing around it; even from a fair distance, Sam could see that Marcus and Cole were having an intense discussion. As she approached, Marcus caught sight of her. An exasperated expression passed over his face.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, standing beside Anya.

"I was just explaining to Cole why he can't come," Marcus said, giving Cole a pointed look. "Sam, you're staying too."

Years of being told what she could and couldn't do hadn't improved Sam's tolerance. Colour flooded into her face as her lip curled up in a grimace. She never should have let Marcus see her arm in a sling.

"I grew up here, I know this area. You need me."

"This isn't a debate."

Before she could open her mouth and say something she'd probably regret, Cole stepped in.

"Marcus, my man…" Cole's tone was remarkably serene for a man who was being told to sit on his ass while God only knew what was happening to his best friend. "I know you remember that time in Jilane when that Mauler punched you in the face. You were hurt real bad, but you still tried to lead us out of there. No way in hell are we sitting this one out."

Sam could have kissed Cole for including her in that statement. Marcus still looked torn, battling his overprotective nature. The sound of approaching footsteps snapped him out of his internal debate. Hoffman and Bernie were coming towards them, half dragging Rennoll between them.

"You sure about this, Fenix?" Hoffman asked.

"This arsehole sounds like a real piece of work," Bernie agreed. "Are you sure he'll even agree to a hostage exchange?"

"I'm not," Marcus admitted. "But we don't have a choice. A direct assault is too risky and it takes away too much manpower from the fort. I wouldn't be surprised if this was a set-up to distract us from something."

Bernie still didn't look enthusiastic about the plan, but she nodded anyway. "Right. According to our friend here, Griffin's holed up in an abandoned mining town about thirty klicks east of here. He can provide more accurate directions."

"We'll be back as soon as we can."

As they all began climbing into the Centaur, Bernie grabbed Marcus' shoulder. "Hey… bring Blondie back safe."

Sam took a seat beside Jace, and as far away from Rennoll as she could manage. She didn't entirely trust herself around him. One smart comment and she might very well break his jaw. Somehow she didn't think Marcus would appreciate that. Cole was left sitting beside the hostage, fixing him with a severe stare. It was going to be a long and uncomfortable ride.

Inside the Centaur, the atmosphere was edgy. No one spoke, other than Rennoll who occasionally gave directions. Marcus had the tank going as fast it could but the ride still seemed to take ages. Gradually the trees began to thin, evidence of a long-dead logging industry.

Truth be told, Sam had never been this far east. Sheraya had been an overprotective mother and consequently Sam's childhood hadn't included as much exploring as she'd liked. One time in her early teens she had managed to slip the walls with a couple friends. They'd planned on a camp-out overnight; sleeping bags and snacks were smuggled out as well. The sun had barely even set before a search party—led, embarrassingly enough, by Sheraya—found them. That was the night Sam decided she'd enlist. That night saved her life.

Suddenly, Rennoll lurched forward. Sam thought he was going to vomit and jerked away, but he began pointing manically. "There! Just up ahead."

Sure enough, around the next corner a decrepit building came into view. More appeared out of the trees: bunk houses for the miners, a mess hall, a smelter—all crumbling into ruin. It was quite sad to see a place that had once been so full of life falling into nothing. Nature was slowly reclaiming its lost ground now that no one was left to maintain this long-forgotten industry.

As the Centaur rolled through the remains of the mining camp, people slowly emerged from the buildings. All of them were Stranded, but Sam could plainly see that barely half of them were native to the area. Kashkur wasn't a country known for its easy living, so something else had to be drawing the Tyran Stranded here. That didn't bode well for Anvil Gate.

"Stop right up there." Rennoll indicated a decaying structure up ahead. Two men stood on either side of the entrance, armed with Hammerbursts.

Marcus brought the tank to a stop a few meters shy of the building. Both of the guards raised their guns as the door to the Centaur opened.

"Be careful," Anya warned.

"If we wanted to kill them, we would have blasted this place already," Marcus said. "They know that."

Cole didn't look convinced. "Let's send our buddy out first, just in case."

Marcus hesitated for a second, but then nodded. Cole grabbed Rennoll by the shoulder and shoved him bodily from the tank. The hostage tripped over his own feet and face-planted into the dirt. That gave Sam a small amount of satisfaction. She, Cole and Jace hopped out next. When Marcus climbed out, the two Stranded guards exchanged a look. An uneasy feeling was growing in Sam's gut. She wondered if those two were from Char; they certainly weren't Kashkuri.

Rennoll trundled up to the guards, talking in a tone too low to hear, complete with erratic gestures. Whatever he said seemed to work, as the men lowered their weapons—slightly—and nodded at Marcus.

"I don't like this," Sam murmured to Cole as they made their way into the building.

"Neither do I," Cole agreed. "But we don't got much choice."

They were taken through a series of dusty hallways by the two guards, with Rennoll getting antsier by the second. After a particular spasm of movement, Cole and Sam glanced at each other. The prospect of meeting Griffin seemed to have spooked this kid. Aaron Griffin hadn't been the most amicable of people, but Sam had never seen this kind of fear inspired in his followers in Char.

There was a stab of pain as she was reminded of Dom again, but Sam pushed it aside. Right now she needed to stay focused. Something wasn't right here.

Finally, the party reached a rather ominous-looking door. The escorts pushed Rennoll inside the room first, and then waited for the Gears to enter. Both guards followed them in and stayed put, effectively blocking the exit. Sam ran through her reaction time, how long it would take her to draw and fire her Snub if she needed to. Then she turned her attention to the center of the room.

Her heart leapt up into her throat.

There was no question who the figure standing with his back to them was: Aaron Griffin, formerly the Stranded leader of Char. While the sight of him did bring back unpleasant memories, Griffin wasn't what made Sam steel herself. Beside him, lashed to an old chair, was Baird, his armor gone. As she got a better look at his face, Sam made a concentrated effort to hide any emotions.

His lip was split and puffy, blood caked in the corner of his mouth. He looked like he'd taken a couple punches to the face: bruises were beginning to show, and his right eye was blackened and almost swollen shut. Hatred welled up inside Sam; she bet that more than half those injuries hadn't occurred during his capture. The Stranded had no goddamn honour. The COG hadn't treated Rennoll like that, even if he was complete scum.

When Baird heard the movement as the Gears entered, he raised his head. "Nice of you to finally show up," he said, his voice hoarse.

When he caught sight of Sam, something—confusion, maybe annoyance—flickered across his face. She could practically hear him thinking, _What the hell are you doing here?_

_Saving your life, you asshat._

Sam could see Cole in her peripheral vision. There was no trace of his normally playful, laid-back demeanour; the man beside her was all tension. His body was completely locked up. She could barely even detect the slow rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. He was all stress and subdued fury, muscles rigid as stone. His jaw was clenched so tightly that Sam worried he might crack his teeth. His eyes, always kind and full of mirth, were hard and cold as they seared into Griffin's skull. This was Augustus Cole on the edge of losing his shit. Sam found it almost as alarming as Marcus' sudden outbursts of rage.

Griffin turned around. Clearly, he'd been expecting them. There wasn't even the tiniest hint of surprise on his face as his eyes locked onto Marcus.

"Fenix. I told you this wasn't over." He glanced over the rest of them. "Looks like I organized a fucking reunion. But you—you're new." He pointed at Cole. "Number 83, the Cole Train, hmm? I heard you joined up. Doesn't really matter; I was always a Sharks man myself."

Baird groaned loudly. "That's it, I'm switching teams."

Griffin backhanded Baird so casually, so gracefully, that it took Sam a second to realize what had happened. Baird simply shook his head and took a few long blinks; he looked dazed for a couple seconds before recovering his composure. Cole took a calming breath. "I'm gonna ask you not to do that again."

At that, Griffin raised his eyebrows slightly. "Don't tell me this little shit is a _friend_ of yours."

And then Marcus bulldozed into the conversation. "We're just here to trade hostages. Then we never have to see each other again."

Griffin ignored the sergeant, instead turning to Rennoll. "You stupid motherfucker. It hasn't even been three hours. You were supposed to stall them for _six_. Can't you do anything right?"

Rennoll stumbled towards his boss, hands raised like a gun was pointing at him. "I'm sorry. I did… I did my…"

Sam didn't see it coming. When their hostage was close enough, Griffin suddenly lashed out at him. One punch knocked Rennoll to the ground, where he curled into a ball in an attempt to protect himself. The pathetic posture didn't deter Griffin; he kicked the boy savagely, driving his boot into Rennoll's stomach and ribs.

The sight made Sam sick. She was no fan of Rennoll, but no one deserved this brutality. Part of her wanted to speak up and stop the beating, but this was Griffin's territory. If they got too pushy, if he felt threatened or even annoyed… Sam was betting that there were a lot more armed Stranded than just the two by the door.

She thought that Marcus might stop it, but he simply watched silently. His face was a mask, betraying neither revulsion nor anger. Before Dom died, Marcus would have stepped in; his undying sense of honour and fair play would have never allowed him to stand by and watch. But things had changed when Dom sacrificed himself. Now Delta was the top priority. Maybe it incensed him, disgusted him, but all that mattered to Marcus now was making sure Delta Squad came out of this intact.

Her eyes flicked to Baird. He was being uncharacteristically quiet, doing his best not to look at Rennoll.

Griffin seemed to lose interest in beating his subordinate. He gave Rennoll one last kick and then turned his back on him. "So," he began casually, as if nothing had happened. "You're here to exchange prisoners? You think it's that easy? That I hauled myself out into this fucking piece of shit wilderness so I could _mildly inconvenience_ you?"

Sam bristled. True, she had always said that Anvegad was the ass-end of the world, but it was with good-natured nostalgia. Nobody else was allowed to bash her hometown.

"No." Marcus' voice was a low growl. "But I'm giving you one last chance to walk away. Don't be an idiot."

Griffin shook his head, a slow smile appearing on his face. " _You_ 're the idiot here, Fenix. There's only one way to deal with an enemy, and I'm not the only COG-hater on Sera. You pissed off a lot of folks before you ever killed my people. My partner, Lyle Ollivar, agrees with me on that one."

 _Damn it._ At least that explained how well-supplied Griffin's men were. Sam's hands curled into fists. Their truce with Ollivar had only been temporary--until the Lambent and the Locust were taken dealt with--but she had kind of hoped the old rivalry wouldn't be rekindled. Maybe she really was as stupid as Griffin insisted she was.

"Walk away, Griffin." Marcus was losing what little patience he had left.

"I set this up, Fenix. You're here because I wanted you to be here."

"So what exactly do you want from us?" Anya asked.

"As I've already explained to your friend here—" Griffin made a swipe at Baird's head; it was a fake-out, but Baird still flinched away—"it all boils down to revenge. You not only destroyed my tower and killed my people, but you took away what chance I had to rebuild. Imulsion's completely gone, and I can't make an empire out of nothing."

"Yeah," Baird muttered, "and imulsion was also turning everyone into rabid zombies."

Griffin elected to ignore him. "But you COG, you're up and running again. Faster than I thought you would be. Got the old oil refineries working. The biggest, closest refinery happens to be in Helvekad."

Sam almost couldn't believe it. _That's_ what this was all over? Fucking _fuel_? Then again, she shouldn't really be surprised. The COG and the UIR fought for almost eighty years over imulsion fields.

"I knew I couldn't just take the refinery. It's too close to Anvil Gate. COG would be swarming the place in hours, and I don't have the manpower to hold you off for long. And I couldn't assault the base head-on. Again, not enough people. Besides, I hear this Colonel Hoffman really knows how to handle sieges."

"Really?" Baird glared up at him. "The mortar strikes could have fooled me."

This time, Griffin didn't miss. The sound made Sam wince. Baird spat out a glob of bloody saliva.

"Testing response times, weakening your defences. I wasn't worried about you assholes rebuilding; I could have waited a year and it wouldn't have made a difference."

Sam knew he was right. Anvil Gate's limited resources had barely made a dent in the repairs; from the Lambent Berserker attack to the recent mortars, its fortifications were in poor shape.

"I suppose I could have attacked earlier, but that one's on me. I wanted to lure you out." Griffin stared directly at Marcus. "I knew if I went after your buddies, you'd show up. You were out there somewhere. Not at Anvil Gate or Port Farrall. No, you've got some other base, one my contacts can't find. So I had to set a trap. And here you are."

"Here I am." Marcus agreed. "What happens now?"

Griffin sneered. "Now I make you watch. While you're in here, I've got an entire convoy going after the fort. Ollivar's shipments really helped set us up. But don't worry about that, you won't be going back there to see the aftermath." He drew his Boltok and pressed the muzzle to the back of Baird's head. "No, you're going to watch as I blow your friend's brains all over the floor, and then—"

It was a split-second decision, one that Sam didn't even realize she'd made until she felt the kick-back of her own pistol. The bullet caught Griffin high in the chest. He looked completely shocked, like he couldn't believe it was happening, and then crumpled to the floor.

All the training in basic gave the Gears the advantage. While the two Stranded guards gaped at their fallen leader, Anya and Jace spun around without a second's hesitation. Two quick bursts of gunfire, and the guards joined Griffin on the floor.

Sam and Cole rushed forward as Anya, Jace and Marcus did a quick sweep outside the door. Baird looked like he had just pissed his pants, but when Sam dropped to her knees to untie his ankles he found his voice.

"What the _hell_ was that?"

A strange giddy feeling was starting to wash over her; she must have been more stressed than she realized. She didn't know whether she wanted to laugh or to yell. "I think I just saved your life, but I might be mistaken."

"He could have killed me. Shit, I think you deafened me. How about a little warning next time?"

"Of course! The next time you get kidnapped and held hostage by some psycho, I'll just say, 'Excuse me, sir, but I'm about to shoot you. Could you please cover my friend's ears? Much appreciated.'"

Cole, who had freed Baird's wrists, snorted. "She does have a point.

"Yeah, whatever."

Baird got to his feet, rubbing feeling back into his numbed hands. Sam was half-thinking of hugging him—or maybe slapping him—when he suddenly cringed, and wrapped his arms around his chest.

Marcus re-entered the room at that exact moment. "What happened?"

"I think I broke a rib." Baird flinched again. "Or all of them."

Anya reappeared. "There's no one out there. They must all have gone with the convoy just after we arrived. We need to warn Hoffman. He won't be ready for a full-scale attack."

Marcus pressed a finger to his ear. "Fenix to Hoffman, do you copy?" He waited, but there was no response. "Fenix to Anvil Gate, is anyone receiving?" Still nothing.

"They must be jamming our comms," Anya said.

"Then we need to take out that convoy. Let's go."

Sam walked towards the exit, Cole and Baird trailing behind her. She would be glad to see the last of this place, and finally deal with the threat that had been hovering over her for weeks. Griffin was gone; surely his Stranded wouldn't last too long once they realized they were on their own.

Without warning, something slammed into her back, sending her stumbling forward. Before she could really comprehend what had happened, a single gunshot rang out. Her stomach dropped. It took her an eternity to spin around.

Baird was behind her, his back facing her. For one glorious second, she thought the bullet had missed. But then he slowly folded in on himself, sinking to his knees. Over his shoulder, Sam saw Aaron Griffin. His arm was shaking from the effort it took to hold up the Boltok.

_No, you're dead. I killed you._

He flashed her a bloody smile. "For you, bitch…"

Sam's hand flew to her holstered Snub but before she could even draw it two bursts of red exploded from Griffin's chest. His eyes rolled back in his head; his arm fell limp to the ground. Sam turned and saw Marcus beside her. He was dead calm, but there was something unnerving about the way he stared at Griffin's body.

_Baird._

Sam and Cole both went to Baird's side. He was kneeling on the ground, clutching his abdomen, face screwed up in agony. As Sam got a better look, ice poured into her veins. The bullet had caught him in the gut. All knowledge of anatomy deserted her as she started at the red spreading beneath his fingers. A gut wound. Those were bad, messy, prone to infection if they didn't act fast.

"What the hell did you do?" Sam asked, her voice tight and high.

Baird's body shivered in a truncated chuckle. "I think I just saved your life. Again." He winced, bent forward a little more.

"Hayman will sort you out," Cole said encouragingly, though his face didn't match his tone. "We need to get back to the fort."

"The… Stranded." Baird squeezed his eyes shut briefly. He was trying, and failing, to hide how much pain he was in.

_Shit._

"He's right," Anya said. "We can't contact anyone at Anvil Gate. If we don't warn them…"

There would be casualties. A lot. The walls of the fort were no longer impregnable. Even if the small garrison could hold off the Stranded assault, there would be a lot of people injured. The infirmary would be over capacity, the patients triaged from most likely to least likely to survive. Sam didn't even want to think where Baird would fall on that list.

"Anya," Marcus said quietly. "You can't expect me to…"

Baird attempted to rise, but doubled over. Cole grabbed his shoulder to steady him. "You know she's right."

Sam couldn't believe her ears. Where was his famous selfishness, the desire to put his life above everyone else's? He was actually _agreeing_ with the decision that would put his life at risk.

"There's medical supplies in the Centaur," Anya added.

"Are you sure about this?" Cole asked.

"No." Baird laughed weakly. "Let's go."

Cole and Jace helped Baird to his feet. On the way up, he lurched forward with a cry of anguish. Sam followed them as they made for the Centaur, feeling completely useless. It was happening again. She was on the verge of losing someone she cared about. With Dom, it had been sudden. He was gone before she had time to let it sink in. One second she was fighting for her life, and then Dom was barrelling down the tunnel in the tanker. All the processing came later.

But now? She couldn't just watch Baird slip away. Not after he'd taken a bullet for her. Not after everything that had happened. Her fists clenched. This would _not_ happen. She wouldn't let him die. He was obstinate, and so was she. Between them, there had to be enough stubbornness to get him back to Anvil Gate alive.


	12. The Death of Me

Baird had been shot before.

Well, maybe a more apt description was _shot at_ before. He'd had his fair share of near misses, grazes, and even a few more serious injuries. But nothing like this. And he definitely could have happily lived his life without experiencing it.

He kept his face blank as Cole and Jace helped him into the Centaur. Even though it felt like someone was jamming a screwdriver into his intestines, Baird noticed that every indication of pain he gave made Cole freak out. Not normal people freaking out, of course, but it was still enough to unnerve Baird. Cole was always chipper and optimistic. If he was acting this way, it meant this was bad. Seriously bad.

_Dying_ bad.

Sam clambered into the tank behind him. _Oh yeah._ After the initial shock of being shot, he'd almost forgotten why he'd stupidly thrown himself in front of a loaded gun. Jace manned the cannon while Anya dug out the field medkit.

"Cole, I need you to apply pressure to the wound." Anya's voice had shifted back to her CIC-tone, when shit was going down and she was doing her best to stay focused. "We have to slow the blood loss." How encouraging.

Cole took a wad of gauze from the lieutenant and pressed it against Baird's stomach. He clenched his fists as pain laced through his abdomen. _Keep it together, man._ Everyone else in the Centaur was losing it in their own subtle ways; some one had to stay in control. He would have laughed, but he knew how much that would hurt.

Marcus drove the tank forward, as fast as it would go. Baird dimly remembered one of his more _exciting_ adventures in this vehicle: the trek from New Hope to Mount Kadar. He supposed he should be thankful they were only going after a platoon of Stranded instead of fending off Reapers and Seeders while crossing a fragile frozen lake.

_Since when am_ I _the one to see the silver lining? Must have lost more blood than I thought…_

He found himself staring at Sam. She was crouched by his side, looking lost as Anya fumbled around in the medkit. He was still vaguely pissed that Sam and Cole had showed up with the rescue party. What was Marcus thinking? Sergeant Safety never put anyone in harm's way. But, then again, Sam had probably saved Baird's life—not that he'd ever admit that. And he'd paid her back rather quickly anyway.

_Funny. I'm not the hero type._

Cole chuckled nervously. _Shit, did I say that out loud?_ Baird couldn't even keep his inner monologue _inner_. He was losing control of his filter. That couldn't be good.

"Marcus." Jace broke the tense silence. "I think I see something through the trees. Yeah, it's—shit, what is _that_?"

Instinct and curiosity had Baird pushing himself up to see but Anya grabbed his shoulders. He would have snapped something, but his brain was having problems conjuring up his usual sass. No matter. Marcus soon cleared up the confusion.

"It's a Pariah tank."

A book title popped into Baird's head. _Armoured Fighting Vehicles of the Pendulum Wars._ It was one of the last books published before E-Day. Some poor, dedicated bastard must have been working on it throughout the fuel wars. Why was Baird fixating on this? But then he saw the top of a page in his mind's eye— _The Union of Independent Republics: The Pariah_.

Ah, there it was. There must have been a picture of the tank in the book somewhere, but Baird couldn't recall it. All he could see was the red cover of the book, the title embossed with gold lettering. God, how much time had he spent pouring over the contents of the Baird Family Library?

"How is one of those even still running?" Anya asked.

_Oh right. Back to reality. I'm bleeding to death, remember?_

"Ollivar," Marcus said, like that explained everything.

Baird rolled his eyes. Lyle Ollivar was a pirate trader, not a wizard. The Pariah had been out of commission since the end of the Pendulum Wars. It would take a hell of a lot of work to get one of those up and running again.

"Shit, there's more!" Jace yelled. "Three!"

_Three_ frigging old UIR tanks? Okay, maybe Ollivar was a wizard.

The Centaur rumbled over something, shifting the contents inside—including Baird. Cole's hand pushed against Baird's stomach and he sucked in a pained breath. Immediately Cole pulled his hands away, but Anya grabbed him.

"Constant pressure," she said forcefully. "This is dicey already."

_That's reassuring._ But Baird kept quiet. Cole wasn't a trained field medic. Yeah, they all went through a crash course during basic training, but most wounds during actual combat were either too minimal to require immediate attention or too serious to bother. And all that training had a way of slipping into some forgotten corner of your mind when it was your buddy that needed saving.

"Ah shit, they've seen us," Marcus growled. "Jace, take out those tanks."

There was a thunderous _boom_ as Jace fired one of the cannon's shells. Baird craned his neck, hoping to see the orange glow of an explosion— _the sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can not die_ —but all he saw was Sam. She looked how he must have felt when she came stumbling out of the trees after getting herself shot by the sniper.

_Yeah, payback's a bitch._

"Hang on, it's about to get rough!" Jace called.

Before Baird could even ask what he meant, something slammed into the side of the Centaur. That couldn't be good. Three tanks on one—and Baird had already experienced Marcus' driving skills.

"We are so dead," he groaned.

At least if they blew up it would save him bleeding out. Fast and simple. And then his brain realized what he'd just thought. His chest tightened uncomfortably. Dom. Suddenly, the sounds around him muted. He was acutely aware of his breathing, speeding up to a panicked pace. Shit, he was going into shock—but this long _after_ he'd been shot? Why now?

_Dom, that's why._

Baird had always thought Delta was indestructible. He knew that was a load of crap, but some part of him still felt invincible on the squad. But then Dom had died—and Baird still sometimes had problems facing that—and everything changed. Common sense told him that he could die at any time but he had always felt special. He couldn't die. He was Damon Baird. But if Dom Santiago was gone, the universe wasn't fair at all.

_Shit. I could die. I could actually die. Shit._

He'd never panicked like this before. Not when seeing a grub for the first time, not when facing his first E-Hole, not even when the Locust had thrown him into that metal cell down in the Hollow. All those times, he'd known that Cole had his back. But not even The Cole Train could fend off death.

"Guys," he began, attempting to smother the fear in his voice. "Don't let me die, okay?"

Silence fell over the back of the Centaur. Cole opened his mouth, probably about to say something inspirational and encouraging, but then out of nowhere Sam slapped Baird. Cole looked completely dumbfounded, while Anya awkwardly pretended not to have noticed. _What the hell?_ His cheek stung, briefly taking his mind off the stabbing pain in his abdomen. He gaped up at her, lost for words.

"You lazy bastard." She was furious; he'd never managed to make her this angry, not even when he was actively trying. "You're not just going to sit back and pin this on us. Fight, you fuckstick."

Baird knew that he should say something but his brain couldn't keep up with all that was happening. The last time someone had hit him it had been Bernie and he hadn't taken that well. He didn't know whether to yell at Sam or attempt some sort of comfort. Luckily, he was spared any further internal debate as another shot from one of the Pariahs slammed into the Centaur.

The tank's movement slowed considerably. That couldn't be good.

"Baird—" Marcus started, because it was habitual.

If something broke, Baird was always the one to fix it. He struggled up onto his elbows despite Anya's protests. _I can fix it. This is what I do._ "I need—"

Anya cut him off. "You need to _stay still_."

She had that no-nonsense tone in her voice, so Baird knew there was no point in arguing. He didn't really have the energy for it anyway. But he also knew they were all screwed if he didn't get a look at the engine—and soon.

"Just… lift up that panel. I need to see."

Sam, Cole and Anya all exchanged a look, apparently having developed telepathic powers in the last few minutes. Baird was tempted to roll his eyes, but they all seemed to agree so he got what he wanted. Sam lifted up the metal square that covered access to the engine and shuffled back so he could see. His jaw tightened as he stared down into the hole.

_Oh… great._

It was bad. The Centaur wasn't going to last much longer like this, and once it slowed down they'd be sitting ducks. Marcus was barely managing to dodge the three Pariahs as it was. _Looks like I get to save the day again. And then I'll die. Wonderful._ But the sight of a broken device was all that Baird needed to snap him out of his panicked mindset. He was an engineer again, Sera's greatest. Death wasn't going to hold him back now.

His hand groped in the direction of the tool bag stashed under the seats of every Centaur. That set Anya off again. "You have—"

"To stay still, yeah, I know." She was really starting to get under Baird's skin, even if she was saving his life. "Sam, you're up."

It was Sam's turn to look stunned. "You're daft."

He ignored her protest. "No choice. Either you fix it or we're fucked."

That might have been the wrong thing to say; her expression became even more panicked. "But I can't—I don't know the first thing about—"

"I've seen you work on your bike's engine plenty of times. It's basically the same." It wasn't. At all. But she didn't need to know that. The Centaur swerved to the side, and Baird gritted his teeth as pain flared up in his gut. "I just need you to be my hands."

Sam relented; she nodded and pulled the tool bag out from underneath the seat. As she rooted around inside, Baird tried to remember what exactly needed to be done. Normally these things came to him in a flash, but right now his mind felt numbed. Every memory was hazy. He knew that he _knew_ what to do, but he just couldn't picture it yet. Sam stared at him expectantly. Finally, recollection burst through the fog in his brain.

"Screwdriver," he said through clenched teeth. "We need to relieve the pressure on the engine." _Before it either craps out completely or explodes._

Holding the screwdriver like a weapon, Sam turned her attention to the engine panel. Her face blanched, and Baird couldn't really blame her. He knew full well that the Centaur's engine was a great deal more complicated than a rat bike's. Irritation prickled at the back of his skull, because he'd never adjust to people who lacked his knowledge.

Suddenly Jace let out a whoop. "Got one!"

"Nice job," Marcus said.

_One down, two to go._

Baird turned his eyes to the engine hole. _How the hell do I explain this?_ He could see what needed to be done and it confounded him that Sam didn't understand how to fix it. But that wasn't her fault, he knew.

"There, that one." He gestured to the problem valve, and Sam wasted no time in loosening it. Almost instantly, the Centaur picked up speed—but not as much as Baird hoped. There was still pressure building somewhere. His eyes frantically scanned the engine, but nothing jumped out at him.

His stomach dropped. He couldn't see the problem. Black was beginning to invade the edges of his vision. _Not good. Not good at all._ If he was going to die, he didn't want to go out as a failure. He just needed to fix this stupid machine.

_Come on, think! You know this tank inside and out. How many hours did I spend holed up in the warehouse, getting greased up and knots in my shoulders? Think, dammit. I'm not going to let them die._

The Centaur shuddered with another direct hit. Luckily, the shell seemed to have missed anything important. Baird's head swung to the side, slamming the right side of his face against the metal floor. He bit back the curse that threatened to come bursting forth and then—

_Oh._

How had he not seen it before? It was so obvious, right there in front of him. Sam was watching him, anxiety all over her face. Was she worried about him or about dying? Either was logical. The sound seemed to be drifting away.

"There," he said, pointing with his index finger. His own voice sounded far off. That should have worried him but he found himself feeling strangely calm.

Sam reached down into the panel as the darkness spread slowly over Baird's eyes. Cole was saying something, although he couldn't quite make it out. _Sorry, buddy._ He didn't want to hurt Cole—any of them—but he didn't really have a choice.

At least the pain was gone. That was comforting.

Baird watched dimly as Sam turned her gaze back to him. Her triumphant expression melted. And the moment leaked away.

 

* * *

 

Ice poured into Sam's veins as she saw Baird's head loll back. While she locked up, Cole had a more practical reaction. As his face screwed up in a mix of agony and determination, he pressed his hands harder to Baird's wound.

"Marcus!" Anya called over her shoulder.

The sergeant didn't even have to look. " _Fuck_ ," he snarled, dodging another blast from a Pariah.

"He's just unconscious," Anya said, but Sam could hear the strain in her voice.

"Head's up, they're trying to flank us!" Jace warned.

Sam's gut was churning; she thought she might be sick. Her body was pumping chemicals into her system, trying to convince her to get the hell out of there. She wouldn't, even if there was somewhere safe to go. These were her friends—her family. She would gladly die before she abandoned them.

The Centaur veered right abruptly, and a muffled explosion signalled that yet another shell had missed them. Marcus' driving was phenomenal, considering the circumstances: trying to outmanoeuvre two tanks, while a friend bled out in the back.

_Unconscious. Not dead. Not yet._

There was still time, still hope. She just had to grit her teeth and trust her friends to get them through this. As Marcus wrestled the Centaur around the two Pariahs, Sam felt completely and utterly useless. She stared at the growing red patch beneath Cole's fingers and her insides twisted into a giant knot.

"Jace—" Marcus started, an edge to his voice.

"I see him, I see— _shit!_ "

The force of the impact sent Sam lurching forward. Her hands barely made it out in time, but she managed to stop herself face-planting into the floor.

"Jace, did you get him?"

" _Shit_. Yeah. That was a nice move, by the way. And now…" Jace sucked in his breath, and then let out a hoot. "Oh hell yeah! Take that, you sons of bitches!"

"Marcus man, what's going on?" Cole had to shout over Jace's celebrating.

"Pariahs are down. The Stranded are starting to scatter. But the comms are still down."

Anya looked up from the medical bag. "They must have a scrambler in one of the vehicles."

"Hey Marcus." Jace peered out of the tank. "That car's doing its best to stay on the edge of everything. You think—?"

"It's worth a shot. Go for it."

Half a second later, a shell thundered out of the Centaur's gun. It slammed into the side of the offending vehicle, engulfing it in a fiery explosion. Instantly, Sam's earpiece crackled with a gloriously familiar static.

"Hoffman to Fenix. Respond, damn it!"

"Fenix here. We—"

Hoffman cut right in. "What the hell, sergeant? We've been trying to reach you for almost an hour. What's your status?"

"We took out a convoy of Stranded aiming to attack the fort. Threat neutralized, but Baird's been shot. Have a medical team standing by. ETA twenty minutes."

There was a slight pause, and Sam couldn't be sure if she heard a small noise in the background. "Will do. Hoffman out."

It was a tense and agonizing drive back to Anvil Gate. No one said any words; there was really nothing that could be said. Words of sympathy tended to grate on the nerves after years and years of tragedy. Anya tried to keep herself busy, while Jace scanned the woods with forced enthusiasm. Marcus, meanwhile, drove in rigid silence, white-knuckled. Cole didn't even bother trying to hide the torment he was clearly feeling.

Sam was still unable to wrap her head around everything. The last twenty-six hours had been a whirlwind of emotions. Anxiety, ecstasy, panic, utter bewilderment. He'd saved her. He'd actually stepped in front of a bullet for her. She knew Baird was changing, but that still shocked her.

Dom's death was a deep wound, one she wasn't entirely sure would heal. If Baird didn't make it… Sam entertained the idea of asking Jace to pray. He'd been through hell, just like the rest of them, but he was the only person of faith that she knew. Personally, she'd never given much thought to the idea of an old, bearded guy up in the clouds or wherever, watching out for everyone. And then E-Day had happened, and sixteen years of hell had made up Sam's mind for her. But Jace seemed devoted. Did it work if she got someone else to do it on her behalf?

Sam never did ask.

Anvil Gate appeared suddenly out of the trees. The main gate opened almost instantly, and the Centaur rolled inside. As the door to the tank creaked open, Sam caught sight of the welcome party: Hoffman and Bernie, side by side, looking like concerned parents; Rossi beside Carmine, who was sporting bandages from the ambush that morning; and even Mathieson, in his crutches and prosthetics, distress apparent on his face.

Hayman materialized inside the Centaur, spry for a woman of her age. Harua Tak and Tom Mathieu had Baird on a stretcher before Sam realized what was happening. The urgency in the old doctor's pace sent a chill of dread down her spine.

Before she could open her mouth to say— _What? Do I want to ask? Can I?_ —Hayman and her team had whisked Baird away, off to the infirmary.

Hoffman ambushed Marcus as he jumped down from the Centaur. "What in God's name happened out there, Fenix? It was supposed to be a hostage exchange."

"Yeah, well things didn't go exactly as planned," Marcus snapped.

Anya stepped in. "It was a trap, to lure manpower away from the fort. Griffin sent out a convoy with tanks and a comm scrambler the moment we arrived. We had to cripple the attack before it made it to Anvil Gate."

"And Baird?" Bernie asked, her voice quiet.

"Got himself shot," Cole answered, attempting to downplay the seriousness of the situation. "You know him. He loves himself too much to die on us. 'Sides, Doc Hayman's a miracle worker."

Hoffman's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Sam had never been in Hayman's operating room (not consciously, anyway), but the colonel made it a priority to keep the doctor happy and supplied. He knew better than anyone else just how difficult Hayman's job actually was.

Bernie took Cole by the arm in an overwhelmingly motherly gesture, and led him towards the hospital. Rossi, Carmine and Mathieson trailed after them, and Sam couldn't help but notice how much it all looked like a funeral procession. Anya, Jace and Hoffman walked at the rear of the group, with Anya bringing Hoffman up to speed.

Only Sam and Marcus lingered by the Centaur. She glanced around the inner compound of the fort—from the damaged, decaying walls to the houses of Anvegad—and wondered what the cost for the safety of Anvil Gate would be.

Marcus edged up beside her. "Sam? You okay?"

A lump threatened to appear in her throat, but she swallowed it down. "Yeah. Let's go."

Now all they could do was wait.


	13. Forward Motion

Cole knew the difference that a positive attitude could have on people. He'd picked up on that when he first started playing thrashball professionally. If they were getting their asses whooped in the first quarter, sometimes all it took was a motivational speech to turn the game around. Doom and gloom never helped; then people just stopped trying.

So Cole had taken that knowledge with him when he enlisted. Like every other Gear, he'd lost loved ones: his folks, a lot of friends—more people than he cared to think about. But slipping down into the depths of despair didn't just decrease his own life expectancy; it lowered morale if a guy on the squad didn't give a damn anymore. Cole made up his mind that he was going to be the bright light amidst the darkness. He didn't let his squad mates see his bad days. Repressing it wasn't healthy, of course, but that's what his letters to his momma were for.

But right now he couldn't manage his invincible Cole Train act. Right now this felt like one punch too many. This would be what broke him. After Andresen, Michaelson and Dom—oh _god_ , Dom—this would be what pushed him over the edge. There was no recovering from this. Now the grubs and the glowies were gone, Cole hadn't expected to lose any more friends in the near future. And yet here he was, hovering outside the door to the operating room, while his best friend fought for his life on the other side.

And Cole couldn't do a goddamn thing.

He glanced sideways. Jace was leaning up against a wall, eyes closed. It almost looked like he was asleep, although Cole could see his lips moving slightly. _Praying_. Admirable, after all the shit they'd gone through in the last sixteen years. Cole didn't really know where he stood on the whole thing, but if angels existed, he was certain his momma would be one of them.

_I don't know if you can hear me, Momma. Goddamn, I hope you can. If you're up there—or wherever—could you put in a good word with the big man for me? I won't survive this, Momma. I can't lose him._ We _can't lose him._

Because Cole wasn't the only one going nuts with worry over this. They were all there, waiting in tense silence: Marcus and Anya, Jace, Hoffman and Bernie, Dizzy, Mathieson, Rossi, and Sam. No one spoke; they'd all been through enough to know that platitudes didn't make a damn bit of difference.

Nearly two hours had passed since Baird—unconscious, pale, bleeding—had been rushed into surgery. Cole had no idea how long digging a bullet out and repairing the damage should take, but he was getting antsy. Someone should have come out and told them _something_. Hoffman was waiting, and he was effectively running the remnants of the COG. But then again, Hayman had never given much reverence to Hoffman when he was Chief of Defence Staff. One more rung up the ladder wouldn't make much difference to her.

Cole had a new appreciation for the hell that Marcus must be going through. He knew that losing Dom and his father had left a big, gaping wound that might never heal. Cole missed Dom as well, more than he thought possible, but he'd never kidded himself into thinking that he was as close with Dom as Marcus was. They hadn't just been friends; they'd been _brothers_.

Now Cole was facing the loss of his own brother, and it wasn't just agony—it was _terrifying_.

Discreetly, he looked down at his hands. His arms were folded across his chest, to disguise the shaking. He didn't want to freak anyone out, but he couldn't forget what his hands had been doing mere hours ago. Pressed up against Baird's abdomen, trying desperately to stop the blood streaming out of his friend's body.

The door to the OR swung open and Hayman stepped out. Her lab coat was spotless, as usual, and Cole wondered bitterly how long that had taken her to achieve. She arched her eyebrow that audience that awaited her, but made no comment.

"Is he…?" Cole couldn't bring himself to ask. _Alive? Or are the next words out of her mouth going to end me?_

"He shouldn't have made it this far." Hayman turned her icy glare on Marcus. "Especially after your little detour. And _you._ " She rounded on Sam. "Count yourself lucky that I don't throw your ass back in a hospital bed, Byrne. You and I are going to have a nice long chat about proper recovery procedures."

To her credit, Sam didn't even flinch at Hayman's acrid tone. She stood her ground and waited until the doctor was done. "So he's okay?"

Hayman glowered at her. "He lost a lot of blood, fractured a couple ribs, and the bullet nicked his intestines. So no, Corporal Baird isn't _okay._ He's alive, and he'll probably stay that way unless you're planning on doing something idiotic in the near future."

A huge weight lifted off Cole's chest. He had to stop himself from heaving a sigh of relief. Glancing around, he could see the lines of worry disappear from his friends' faces. A huge grin spread across Cole's face, and he didn't care how goofy he looked. Baird was alive. This wasn't the end of the world.

He looked up at the ceiling. _Thanks, Momma._

"Can we see him?" Bernie asked.

"Yes, but not all at once. I don't need a goddamn stampede in my infirmary."

Fair enough. Cole could wait now that he wasn't worrying himself to the point of feeling nauseous. Besides, he'd rather that he went last, so he didn't feel like he was keeping anyone else. Sam seemed to have the same idea. While the others broke into small groups and negotiated the visiting order, she hung back beside Cole, a smile barely visible on her face.

Her reaction piqued Cole's interest. He remembered how stressed out she'd been, watching Hoffman and Bernie interrogate Rennoll. He'd been under a hell of a lot of stress himself, so he hadn't paid much attention to it at the time. But then, when they'd all rolled up at Griffin's secret hideout, Cole couldn't help noticing the looks that Baird kept shooting Sam.

Cole knew how his buddy felt about the newest addition to Delta. Baird had never said anything, of course, but Cole wasn't stupid. He'd suspected something was up way back on Vectes, when Baird had snubbed her in the main mess bar. But then Sam had set her sights on Dom, which hadn't seem to matter either way to Baird. _But then_ they'd taken up working on her bike together on Azura. Cole knew Baird well enough to get how big of a deal that was; Baird didn't tolerate anyone near him while he worked.

Clearly, Cole would have to either drag or coerce the answer out of his friend. He rolled his eyes. It was like being back in high school.

 

* * *

 

Sam's heartbeat had finally slowed back to normal. For the past two hours, her heart had been hammering away in her chest, despite how hard she tried to control her breathing. But panic was panic, and there was no way to combat biological responses to stress.

With the news that Baird was going to pull through, her heart finally stopped flipping out. She was able to wait patiently as her friends all disappeared into the recovery wing, reassured that she didn't have to suffer through yet another death. Although she noticed that Cole was eyeing her, an amused expression on his face. She didn't really mind; it was good to see him grinning again.

Finally, Sam and Cole got their turn. She walked past Hayman into the infirmary, ignoring the doctor's hostile frown. There would be time to deal with that later. Yeah, her shoulder had started to ache again now that the numbing effect of the adrenaline had worn off, but she had other things to do.

The hospital wing had cleared out a bit since Sam had spent her week in bed. In the back corner, she spotted a familiar mop of blonde hair. She felt herself starting to smile, but as they got closer, her stomach dropped. Baird looked awful. He was deathly pale, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His bruises had come out more; one side of his face almost completely covered with purple and blue marks. A ratty blanket was pulled up to cover his chest, but Sam could imagine the discoloured evidence of broken ribs.

Baird glanced up when he heard their approach. He didn't smile. "Hey."

Cole, however, was grinning enough for both of them. "Looking good, baby. How ya feeling?"

"Like I got shot, so fucking fantastic."

"That was some crazy shit you pulled back there, man. We're all glad you decided to stick around for a while."

Baird seemed to perk up a little at that. "Yeah, well. You guys would pretty much be dead without me, so…"

Sam smirked, and opened her mouth to say something… but she couldn't find the words. She couldn't really blame him anymore for being awkward when she was the one in the hospital bed. It was beyond uncomfortable, trying to figure out what to say. Especially when he'd taken a bullet for her only hours earlier. He wouldn't even look at her. But he wasn't really looking at Cole either. He just kept staring at his lap, occasionally glancing towards a wall or another bed.

All his defences had been stripped away. This was just him now, exposed and vulnerable. He didn't have the energy to keep up his total-bastard act, but he was trying his hardest to keep anyone from noticing.

Cole got it, though. If Sam could see it, Cole certainly could. As if on cue, Cole gently patted Baird's shoulder. "We'll let you rest now. And I'll see if I can't smuggle some of Dizzy's bacon in tomorrow. I know how god-awful Hayman's hospital food is."

They turned to leave. Half a second later, Baird suddenly called out. "Hey, Sam."

She turned around, keeping her face neutral. "Yeah?"

"The next time you kill someone, you want to make sure they're actually dead?"

She could tell he wasn't really trying to start something. It was just an excuse to get her to stay behind. She played along. "Hey, I saved your life, thank you very much."

"Ha, _barely._ "

Cole laughed, and kept walking towards the exit. "I think I'll let you get embarrassed in private." He gave Sam a meaningful smile as he backed out the door.

She turned back to Baird, but before she could even open her mouth, he cut her off.

"Cole knows." He finally met her gaze, his expression blank. Something was up. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought he was depressed.

"How can you tell?"

"Trust me, I can tell. He'll probably leave it alone until I don't look like I'm dying anymore, and then there will be no end to the jokes."

Sam edged closer to the bed. "Does he know that you know that he knows?"

Baird looked at her like she'd started speaking Kashkuri. "Y'know, the painkillers don't do shit for the pain, but my head feels like it's stuffed full of cotton."

"Okay, never mind that, then."

An awkward silence fell over them. There was still the background noise of the recovery wing: the occasional cough, the low murmur of chatter amongst other patients, the beeps of what little functioning machinery Hayman had scrounged up. After about five seconds, the silence had apparently become sufficiently uncomfortable for Baird to blurt out what had been bothering him.

"I guess you're gonna need to find someone else to get your rocks off while I'm stuck in here."

He said it sullenly, but without any genuine malice. If anything, he sounded disheartened. That didn't take the sting out of it, though. Sam bit back the "fuck you" that was on its way out as she tried not to take it personally. She knew how difficult it was to have all your defences stripped away, and then have to stare the one person who had the power to completely destroy you. And Baird hadn't exactly been supporting when the roles were reversed. He came in once and barely said anything.

Now was a good time for revenge. _Don't I deserve better after all we've been through?_ A year ago, she would have used her own coping mechanism: swearing and stalking off. She'd done it plenty of times on Vectes. But she was above that now. She knew what it was like to feel completely naked. He was lashing out because he figured it was all he could do.

Sam rolled her eyes and sidled closer to him. "You really are a complete div, you know that? If I wanted just any dick, I could've had it ages ago." Before he had the chance to respond, she took a leap of faith: she slid her hand into his. "I want _this_ dickwad."

Dom would have flinched away, or given her a pained look. She waited for Baird to do just that. Instead, he stared at their hands together, his eyebrows furrowed, like he was looking at a math problem he couldn't work out. But he didn't pull away. In fact, Sam could have sworn that she saw colour rise underneath his bruises.

"Damon."

It was out of her mouth before she realized she was even thinking of it. That earned her a bemused frown.

"Cole's the only one who calls me that," he said quietly. "And only when he's pissed at me."

That, she could work with. "I'll take that as a challenge to change how you feel about that name."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Yeah? And how are you planning on doing that?"

Sam flashed him a winning smile. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see."


	14. Chase the Morning

**Epilogue: Chase the Morning**

 

She flopped down beside him, her chest rising and falling with her accelerated breathing. He glanced over at her, their eyes meeting. Breathless laughter filled the room. He didn't even care that his ribs hurt like hell. It had been worth it.

Their clothes were scattered around the bed, like debris from the center of a blast radius. His heart rate slowly returned to normal, and the soreness in his chest started to fade. Goosebumps rose on his skin as his excess body heat evaporated. Sneaking a peak out of the corner of his eye, he saw the same tiny bumps on her skin. A drop of sweat slipped from her collarbone down between her breasts. Before he could entirely appreciate the view, she tugged the tangled blanket over her body.

This cot wasn't made for two people. It had been fine when she was on top of him, but now things were starting to get a little crowded. He threw an arm casually over her head, trying to stretch out his cramping back. Surprisingly, she shuffled closer to him, using his shoulder as a pillow. Fine by him, because he certainly wasn't sharing his. They settled in to a comfortable silence.

He'd had a feeling someone would be stopping by. Hayman had finally let him out of the infirmary that afternoon, under the condition that he didn't pull a Byrne (her words, not his). The first thing he had done with his newfound freedom was stumble back to his quarters and collapse onto his mattress. The beds in the hospital really were absolute shit. His intention had been to grab a quick nap, but when the soft knock came on his door, he discovered that he'd slept for nearly six hours.

When he had opened the door and seen her, he wasn't surprised. But he did feel a little anxious; this was the first time they'd been well and truly alone since his brush with death. She'd kept him company enough while he was hospitalized—all his friends had—but there had never really been a moment to talk over what had happened. Not that he particularly _wanted_ to, but somehow he got the feeling that she did.

He'd had these stupid fantasies to keep him occupied, fuelled by his inability to get out of bed and do anything. He imagined her tiptoeing to his cot in the middle of the night, climbing in beside him… But it was too public, even when the patients were sleeping. He dozed off enough during the day—because it was so frigging _boring_ —that he hardly ever slept through the entire night. And Harua Tak or Tom Mathieu would wake him up anyway to check his blood pressure. No, there hadn't been any opportunities for what he had in mind.

Although, they had come close once. About a week ago, when the ward was curiously empty—not completely, but no one was super close to them—and she had taken him by surprise. Out of nowhere, she just slid her hand under the blanket, but before anything could happen, Hayman had burst in. He panicked, she quickly withdrew her hand, flushing. And after that, nothing.

Until last night.

She had darted inside his room and he'd closed the door far too eagerly. But she hadn't jumped on him like he'd been hoping for. Instead, she started up their usual banter. He couldn't tell if she was stalling on purpose so he played along, ignoring the warmth pooling in his stomach, refusing to break first.

And then she switched gears completely, mid-conversation, staring at him, suddenly dead serious.

"Why did you do it?" she had asked.

He didn't need her to clarify. Frankly, he'd spent a fair share of time thinking about that himself. He couldn't remember actually deciding to move. It was a subconscious decision, one his brain didn't even get time to register, before he had a bullet ripping into his abdomen. As for the why, he didn't really want to think about that. He knew damn well why. It was the same reason he'd charged after Cole during the mortar strikes, the same reason Dom had jumped in that tanker in Mercy.

He knew. She knew—or suspected, at least. But he wasn't ready yet.

"Do you really need to hear me say it?" he'd asked, his voice quiet.

She was disappointed, and he was surprised by how much that hurt. But she had to know who it was she was dealing with. And she did. A small smile spread across her face, tinged with exasperation. "Not today," she had said, snaking her arms around his neck.

And then she'd kissed him.

They weren't nearly as energetic as they had been in the garage. Even though he'd been discharged, his whole front still ached if he so much as took a particularly deep breath. And he was pretty sure his ribs wouldn't appreciate it if he fucked her up against the wall again. To her credit, she had been surprisingly mild. Taking him by the hand, she'd led him over to his mattress. It had all been quite slow and intimate, like it was the first time. She had delicately removed his clothes and gently pushed him back on the bed. Then she stripped—slowly, sensually—and then she was on top of him.

Her fingers brushed over his chest, jolting him from his reverie. He looked over at her, confused, but she was just distracted. Off in her own daydream, she was fiddling with whatever was closest to her. He didn't really mind; he relaxed, trying hard not to wonder how much time they had left.

She was almost tickling him, but he wouldn't laugh. They were in a sort of trance now, all pretensions and façades gone, and amazingly he didn't feel the desperate desire to bolt. He didn't plan on scrutinizing it too closely, though. For once, he was going to just turn his brain off and enjoy the moment.

Eventually, her fingers began to move. Between his pecs, down over the top of his abs, still heading south. A grin was starting to form when he realized that she wasn't trying to start things up again. Her hand stopped, hovering over top of his most recently acquired scar.

Suddenly, the moment balanced on the edge of a knife. If he didn't do something, or if he waited too long, the spell would be broken. It was dangerously close to fracturing already. To say anything would ruin it, but to ignore it altogether would be just as disastrous. He was on the brink of panicking when he understood what he needed to do.

Slowly, cautiously, he placed his own hand over hers, and pressed her palm against the scar Griffin's bullet had left behind.

She let out a breath, nestling into the contours of his body. And he found himself smiling. He closed his eyes as his grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly.


End file.
